Third Encounter
by Rector
Summary: The continuance of Omegaverse. Is Mycroft finally being too clever?
1. Chapter 1 Mobilisation

**The third story in the Encounter series.**

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**Mobilisation**

_The First Arrangement – A Meeting of Minds – Making Plans – The Trials of Greg Lestrade – A Conversation – Grace Glams Up – Marked for Death – Voyeur – Second Chance – It Begins – Set Up – Welcome Back – New Friends – Home Sweet Holmes – A Miscalculation?_

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Astonishingly, it had taken him almost twelve weeks to prepare the various elements of his stratagem. Not the design of it, no; he had visualised his way through that in a matter of minutes, but the implementation of it had been far more complex and time consuming, involving, as these things inevitably did, _other people_. Quite a large number of other people in fact, who, despite their goodwill and purpose, seemed to drift relentlessly through his operations with all the dispatch and alacrity of somnolent koi.

His plan – The Plan – as were the vast majority of his strategies, was multifaceted, far-reaching and labyrinthine. There were several points of genesis, an _imbroglio_ of disparate agencies, and more than a few key players who – if all went to plan – would never have the slightest clue they had ever been played.

But now both he and his plan had reached a point of no return; the brink of the precipice upon which he must choose to either step forward and risk everything for the cause, or retreat into shadow and ignominy. Once embarked upon this course of action, there would be no second chance, no way back across burned bridges, and the price of failure was terribly high. What he was planning to do carried great risk, both personal and professional, but victory, if he was successful ... _when_ he was successful, offered a sublime triumph. His plan was perfect; he had reviewed its implementation until he could recount the anticipated progression of each stage almost minute-by-minute.

Besides, it was not as if he had any great choice in the matter. Recent events had made it clear that this was not only the option of greatest gain, but the only realistic choice available to him, no matter the potential for disaster.

And thus, the day for action had arrived.

Taking a slow, deep breath, Mycroft Holmes pulled out his Nokia and set his preparations in motion.

###

Gerald Palmer leaned back in his chair and looked at the woman sitting across the desk from him. "Are you sure?"

Grace Chandler meshed her fingers in her lap and nodded, noting his reserve. "Why? You don't think I should take the opportunity? It's not likely to happen again in London, you realise?"

"It's not the event that concerns me, Grace," Palmer tipped forward, resting both forearms on the desktop as he stared at her. "Though MI5 has something of a tough reputation in the public domain, you've been through a pretty harrowing and stressful time since you moved to Millbank, and I'd be less than perceptive or considerate if I waved you on without some word of caution. "Are you quite sure you have sufficient distance from Colin Ward's death to make an objective decision about this temporary secondment? It has, after all, only been a few months."

_Three months, one week and four days_. Not that she was counting.

"Gerald, this has nothing to do with what happened to the old Archives team, and everything to do with improving my ability to work at the very highest of levels," she said, a little impatiently.

The man meant well, she knew, but Grace felt as if she'd been deliberately wrapped up in cotton wool since March. Every time she'd had a problem to deal with since the awful events of her first week at MI5, someone had inexplicably been there to take the problem away. Every time she struggled with a task from lack of knowledge, someone had appeared with exactly the right information she needed. Whenever she was even on the _edge_ of being stuck, somebody always seemed to be there to put their finger on the knot while she tied off the bow. Though she had no clue, other than outright coincidence, as to how this was happening, she had permitted it at first because it had been genuinely helpful, but of recent, such interventions had become increasingly irritating. She was beginning to feel as if someone was watching her and it was long past time to take the helm again.

"That this open practicum is even _available_ is little short of a miracle; I still don't know what made the British agencies agree to co-operate, let alone invite the Americans to join in, but they did and they have, and to turn this opportunity down would be tantamount to malpractice," Grace folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. "Unless you have an exceptionally good reason for me not to do this, then I think a four-week secondment is no great problem. I can ensure all the newcomers to the department are fully briefed on what needs to be done; they are highly skilled and have settled in extremely well, so there's no great concern there," she paused. "Plus, it's not as if I'm going to be on the Moon, is it? I'm only going to be up at the MoD in Spring Gardens, which is what ... four minutes away by car?" Grace raised her eyebrows. "If needs be, I can call in here on the way home, but I'm sure the department will be fine, the work will be fine and I, most assuredly, will also be fine," she smiled at the Head of MI5. "And just think," she added. "Of all the secret things the others might be doing that I can poach and bring back here," she laughed lightly.

"Very well," Gerald Palmer was not a difficult man to work with despite the exigencies of his post. He trained his front-line people for hard and often dangerous work, and did the same for the administrative and backroom staff as far as he could. He had no desire to see someone as competent and clever as Chandler become disaffected with her role, and had taken every care to ensure her ordeal by fire had been ameliorated as far as might be possible. Nor did he wish to lose her services; already she had been able to identify several weaknesses in the data-storage and file-sharing operations, the resolution of one issue also resulting in a significant cost-saving. Who would have thought that printing documents in a _sans-serif_ font in place of the usual Times Roman, might realise a projected saving of over £100,000 over two-years? Who would have imagined that they used so much printer ink? He had already implemented the printing protocol throughout the service. The less he spent on ink, the more he could spend on other, more critical, items.

Thus, if his Director of Archives said she wanted to take part in a temporary secondment involving the various branches of British and American national security to find out how each of them were preparing to manage their data repositories in the new century, who was he to say nay?

"When do you leave?" he asked.

"The whole affair begins formally next Monday afternoon, but we're all meeting for dinner on Sunday evening to get to know each other," she said. "You're paying for me to dine on good British fare at _Five Fields_ in Chelsea," she grinned suddenly. "Something about wanting to give the Yanks a taste of proper British cooking."

Palmer's bark of laughter was vaguely cruel. "Don't tell me you're going to try and get them to eat Mother's 'Old Faithful's'?" he asked dubiously. "Boiled beef and carrots? Spotted Dick?" he shuddered and shook his head. "If there's any sudden chilling of détente, then I'll know exactly where to look for the cause."

"You underestimate British cooking," she smiled. "I'm sure we're all going to get along famously." Now that the final hurdle had been negotiated, Grace relaxed back in her chair and looked philosophical. "A group of total strangers from several different international security services, each wanting to know what the others are doing and how they're doing it in a seminar in the middle of London? What could possibly go wrong?"

###

"We have looked at everything that could go wrong down to the smallest detail," the leader of the group, known to everyone only as _Mr Roberts_, pulled at his lower lip between finger and thumb. "Is there _anything_ at all we might have neglected? Anything that could turn sour on us? There's only going to be a single shot at this."

His lieutenant leaned as far back in his seat as possible, stretching his spine and pressing the heels of both hands against his eyes at the same time. He was tired; tired of sitting here going through the finest of details over and over again. Tired of double-guessing the things that might fail, and so incredibly ready to stop with the planning and just _begin_.

"There's nothing we've forgotten," he said wearily. "Since the very start, we've looked at each little detail and asked ourselves if this is the thing that could wreck the entire project, but there's nothing wrong with the plan," he said, rubbing his eyes again. "Nothing at all."

"Is the safe house still under surveillance?" Roberts was still worrying his lower lip. "I want to be absolutely sure that nobody is likely to be anywhere near the place while we are there."

"It's right out the back of beyond," the compact, mousey-haired second-in-command stood and stretched his arms high above his head. Jason Redcar had worked with this man for a long time; their joint histories travelling in parallel through some notable adventures. Now they were about to embark upon another undertaking, though this one was a little different from the usual fare and a lot more dangerous. And a great deal more lucrative.

"The only living things anywhere near the safe house are a bunch of sheep and maybe some badgers. The nearest human habitation is just over five miles away, and even _that's_ nothing more than a small farmhouse, so far off the grid that it has a well and a generator, instead of mains water and power. There'll be nobody to disturb us once we're there, and you know it."

Roberts made a wry face, shrugging slightly. "I guess the fact that we're all going to be risking our lives is making me a little jumpy," he shrugged again. "There's a lot of things at stake, apart from the money."

"There's always some risk in these jobs," Redcar stood, hands on his hips. "But we can all retire with the takings from this little lark," he grinned. "What are you going to do with your cut?" He grinned. _As if he didn't know_.

Smiling faintly, Roberts looked out through the darkening windows into the early summer evening.

"You know exactly what I'm going to do with it," he said, pulling out his wallet and removing a small coloured photograph. It was a picture of a sleek white sailing craft, her double masts tall and elegant in the sunlight. "The _Sea Cloud_," he added. "With the payoff from this little jaunt, she'll finally be mine. What about you?" he asked. "Still planning on getting that mansion in Mexico?"

"Oh yes," his lieutenant nodded slowly, his eyes distant. "Once this is all over, and I've taken care of a little family business, then Queretaro, here I come."

"Once this is all over," Roberts sounded thoughtful.

"Yeah, once we've got the man at the top," Jason Redcar grinned afresh.

###

Greg Lestrade dumped his suitcase on the floor of his office and closed his eyes briefly, as he sighed in unqualified relief. For the last umpteen weeks, he'd been running around like a blue-arsed fly, seemingly flavour-of-the-month with a variety of departments.

First he'd been dragged up to the Northern borderlands to give a series of talks to new recruits after which he'd been sucked into sitting on an interview panel for the entire North-east England intake. Not only had the panel extended his work commitments, but it had kept him away from London for another week. He just made it back to his house in time to water his one plant and put the kettle on, when he received a cry for help from an old friend on the Specialist Crime and Operations Directorate; the Assistant Commissioner had asked for a senior officer from the Serious Crimes Unit to be seconded to the Organised Crime team who happened to be looking into a series of gang-related kidnappings and death-threats. Having tried to form an association with this particular team for some time, Greg could hardly refuse, but only had barely enough time to empty his case of worn clothes and repack it with fresh gear before he was out the door again, this time to Birmingham.

_That_ little jaunt had lasted nearly a month; the team to which he'd been attached had made some enormous inroads into the pack-minded criminals of the Midlands, but it meant he'd been living out of hotels now for almost six weeks in a row, and Lestrade realised that even _he_ could get a little fed-up with hot and cold running room-service and televised American football games on demand.

Lying back against a pile of heaped-up pillows in his latest hotel room and watching the evening news as he munched his way through a bowl of stuffed olives before what would undoubtedly be another gourmet dinner, Greg found his thoughts wandering back to the woman he'd barely begun to get to know. It was as plain as the nose on his face that Grace Chandler was something special, and it made him grind his teeth in frustration at the thought that they'd hardly had the time to share more than a cup of tea before he'd been hauled off on one thing after the next, ever since.

If he were a suspicious man, he'd think there was something odd about it, but the problems coming his way were all so genuine and unplannable, that he shook his head, amused by his own imaginings.

He'd returned from Brum and had flung a load of laundry in the wash when his mobile had buzzed at him across the kitchen counter. Giving the device a narrow-eyed glare, Lestrade answered the call, only to be advised that he'd been appointed emergency understudy to the international liaison officer between Interpol and the Met.

"That's fine," he nodded as he spoke. "Understudies don't need to do much, do they?"

He had been less happy upon receiving the information that the primary liaison had suddenly come down with a severe case of shingles and that he, as _official_ understudy, emergency or otherwise, was now up for the gig.

"But I've only just got back into town!" he waved his free hand wildly in the air. "I've not been home in weeks," he almost yelled. "I've got no more clean shirts left!"

It did him little good. There was a ticket being couriered his way for a flight to Lyon that evening. He had sufficient time to dry his washing and get to Gatwick, but nothing else. He would be met at the _Lyon–Saint Exupéry_ Airport and taken thence to a very nice hotel so that he could make a start fresh in the morning.

They would even arrange for additional fresh shirts to be waiting for him in his room if he so desired and was prepared to leave the choice of said clothing up to the purchaser.

No, he _didn't_ desire, but there was no point arguing the toss, especially as it seemed the very reason he'd been selected was his recent experiences with organised crime and gang-management, the exact work he'd been doing in Birmingham. Sighing, he'd thrown his clean wet clothes in the dryer, watered his poor plant again and dug out a new tube of toothpaste. He'd just zipped up his case again when the courier arrived at his door.

France, he had to admit, had been lovely in the Spring.

Despite his Sixth-form French, his European colleagues had been refreshingly helpful and pleased, it seemed, to be helped. The city, with its red-tiled roofs and large, many-windowed imperial era buildings, was a delight and the food ... ah, god, _the food_. He had eaten more cheese and fish during his stay there than he had in the last six months. Just as well they had him racing around otherwise it wouldn't be clean shirts he'd run out of, but shirts that still fitted.

But all good things, as they say, and Greg had, after been waved off the tarmac at _Lyon–Saint Exupéry_, headed back to London. He had already put in for a few days leave, just so he could focus on getting his life back into some sort of routine after all the haring around he'd been doing. It would be so good just to sleep in his own bed for a change.

Arriving back in London, he saw that the City was headed well towards early Summer, the trees especially, looked as fresh and green as he could recall seeing them. Clearly one benefit of being away for so long, was that he was able to see things he might never have otherwise noticed.

After calling Donovan at the yard, checking that everything was as it should be and assuring her he'd pop in for a chat before he took his leave, his phone rang in his pocket. Assuming it was his sergeant ringing back with a problem or a question, Greg answered easily enough, a light smile on his face now that his mad travels were finally all over and done.

The smile faded in disbelief as the voice at the other end advised him that – very sorry and all that – but could he please drag his weary carcass over to Guernsey in the Channel Islands where his reputation in organised crime was by now preceding him. Apparently, the tax-haven status of the islands had generally attracted the wrong sort of tourists in to the island, and in St Peter Port in particular.

"You've got to be bloody _kidding_," he cried. "I step in through my front door for the first time in _weeks_, and you expect me to drop everything, _again_, and go charging off into the wilds of some French island to help them with their imported European gangs?"

There was a pause as another person took up the call and spoke.

Unconsciously, Lestrade felt himself straightening as the dulcet tones of Deputy Commissioner Jackson thanked him for his dedication to both the job and to the force. "I need more like you, Inspector," Jackson said quietly, handing the phone back to the original caller.

And so it came to pass that Greg found himself once again on a small aeroplane, crossing the English Channel and coming to a bit of a jerky halt as his eight-seater de Havilland slowed to a jumpy taxi outside the main terminal building.

As promised, there was a car waiting for him, taking him directly to the latest in a long line of hotels, where he immediately stashed his gear and headed down to find the hotel bar. Fortunately, the place was relatively empty at this late hour. The beer was cold, there was a bowl of peanuts and West Ham was on the box. Life wasn't perfect, but it could be worse.

That thought stayed with him through the whole of the next two weeks. He was done and finished here after ten days, but then Hurricane Brenda decided to wrap the entire French coast in her reckless arms and the whole island was socked in for over a week.

_Things could be worse_, he reminded himself. _Much, much worse._

When the storm eventually relented to the point where small aircraft were permitted to take to the skies, Greg looked at the calendar and realised that, other than the odd day or two in between mad dashes, he'd been away from London for almost exactly three months. It was now the beginning of June and he'd missed an entire London season. The thought made him vaguely sad; Spring was always one of his favourite times in the great City; everything crisp and clean-smelling.

Oh well. At least he could take those days leave he'd had waiting for him. He might be able, finally, to make some time to be with Grace; he'd sent her the odd email, telling her where he was and explaining, the best way he knew how, why he hadn't followed up with her. Even though she'd not replied, he hoped she'd be understanding about the whole thing. Maybe it could be something they'd laugh about over that dinner they never got to have.

_Dinner with Grace_.

Now _that_ was something to look forward to. Lestrade grinned as his plane started its descent into the early evening skies around Gatwick.

Grabbing a cab, he realised his grin was growing wider by the minute as all the local sights were refreshed in his mind. Everything looked a bit different; green and lush, though that was perhaps a trick of the fading light.

Being a Sunday, other than essential duty staff, the Yard would be almost deserted, but he had so many bits of paper and official documentation, Greg decided to go there first and dump everything; he could call back in in the morning and sort it out before he headed off on leave. Deciding to give Grace a call while he was there, he rang her number, only to discover that for some inexplicable reason, his signal wasn't getting through. There had to be some technical glitch blocking reception of his call. _Strange_.

After dumping his suitcase on the floor of his office and sighing an enormous sigh, he flicked on his computer to have a quick look at any urgent emails waiting for him. There were only a few; he'd been pretty good keeping up with his paperwork on the computer they'd let him use in Guernsey. In fact, there was only very recent one that caught his eye, and he smiled as he tabbed it open. _A message from Grace_.

Reading swiftly through the few lines of text, Greg felt the smile fade from his face. After all this time away, after hoping they could finally get to have that meal he'd promised, together with a chance to get to know each other just that little bit better, she was off on some secondment? It had started today? _A Sunday?_

Slumping down in his creaky old chair, Lestrade took a deep breath and held it. For some reason at the moment, he seemed doomed to incredible bad luck, especially with his love-life, such as it was. Not that he could blame anyone but himself for the weird and unsociable hours, or the running around from pillar to post, especially these last few weeks. But still.

Rattling off a couple of answering lines to the effect that he'd be waiting to take her to dinner when she was free, he locked the papers in his drawer, grabbed his case and headed out the door, hailing a cab as soon as he reached the street.

The sky was dark now; the shine had gone off his return a little. Unlocking the old painted door to his home, he flicked on the lights and walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

His plant was dead.

Greg sighed.

###

Taking up his phone and after introducing himself, his authority, and the purpose of the call, Mycroft Holmes was charm itself as he spoke with the current Master of Oxford's Balloil College. Enlightening the senior administrator of his old _Alma Mater_ in the ways of the world and the nature of the beast, Mycroft assured the man there was really no cause for concern. Some of the things the Master might _possibly_ feel the need to be concerned about included a number of activities planned to take place at his college in the not too distant future, to which, in addition, there would be certain activities of an _unplanned_ nature. Both sets of events would be allowed to proceed as the situation unfolded, although there was a small element of risk to persons of a nervous disposition who might, unwittingly, become entangled in unpredictable consequences of the unforeseen events. While the risk inherent in these undisclosed complications would be almost completely mitigated by a substantial presence of British security representatives, it would be judicious to ensure, if at all possible, that anyone of a particularly or potentially delicate nature could be elsewhere, especially when a very _specific_ unscheduled activity took place, involving an undetermined number of individuals who may or may not be pleased to leave the planned events in a spirit of calm good humour. It might be wise therefore, to assume the worst and obtain the absence of those deemed sensitive to upset, from one event in particular, details of which would be communicated closer to the time in question. Hence this conversation, which had not actually taken place, but which was to express a desire that all sensitive personnel remain markedly absent from this most _delicate_ of events at a time yet to be confirmed.

Was that all nicely clear, Master? _It was?_ Good.

###

It was really only when she was getting her clothes ready for the secondment project's inaugural dinner that Grace Chandler realised she hadn't heard from either Greg Lestrade or ... _Him_ for an oddly long space of time. That she'd been deeply involved in the rebuilding of her Archive team ever since ... ever since the original team had been disbanded, she'd still had _some_ private time to herself. It was strange that Greg, especially, hadn't tried to get in touch with her; had he been waiting for her to take the initiative? He had sounded so keen before, but that had been weeks and weeks ago. Had he been as busy as she? Maybe he was waiting for her to get all the bad memories out of her system before starting afresh. But still, there hadn't even been an email or a phone call. It was odd, if nothing else.

Deciding to see if there was still any interest there, or if she had been imagining the whole thing, she sat down at her computer and sent a brief message to his account at the Yard, saying that she was going to be away from her office for a while, involved as she now was in a temporary secondment which began today, or rather, tonight. Sending it off without another thought, Grace returned to her bedroom where two very smart dresses were laid out on her bed.

The mid-blue, a much-prized Versace, made her eyes look like the sky, an effect she quite liked; grey eyes were okay, but boring, after a while. The only thing was the blue dress was on the short side for a professional business-dinner.

Then there was the navy one; a plain and rather severe outfit, it had the most wonderful neckline and made her skin glow. But it was long-sleeved and felt a bit too uptight for a friendly and casual get-to-know-you, dinner. All her other frocks were either just a bit too party-ish, or definitely designed for the work environment, neither of which she wanted. But it was too late now to go and find something new.

Poking her head inside the wide sliding doors of her wardrobe, Grace wondered if there was anything else she'd missed, when she saw the satin petticoat. Worn only for a fancy-dress party, it was in one of her favourite colours, a deep, smoky sea-green. In a moment of sheer madness, she wriggled it on, then pulled the mid-blue dress down on top.

The light bounce of the gathered satin hung about three inches below the hem of the blue dress, which now swirled to accommodate the extra bulk of the underskirt. All she needed to do was add some dangly silver earrings, her silver and somewhat masculine watch, a nice bright lipstick, and _voila!_ Grace even managed to dig out a pair of low-heeled blue suede courts, a little dusty, but nothing a good brushing couldn't fix.

Twirling in the mirror, she grinned at herself. Green and blue, one of her favourite combos. And now she was off on the start of another adventure at one of the nicest restaurants in town.

Dipping back into the wardrobe, she pulled out a light, silky green cardigan and slung it around her shoulders. Dropping her keys, phone, bankcard and lipstick in a small silver clutch, she whistled softly as she made her way downstairs and out towards the main road where the taxis ran thick and fast. In moments, she was ensconced in a comfortable black cab and off to meet her new, albeit temporary colleagues.

If Greg Lestrade wasn't interested, maybe there'd be someone there tonight who was.

###

"Bored, bored, bored, bored, _bored_," Sherlock lay on his back, stretched out along the settee, staring at the ceiling and making it fairly clear that his current state of _ennui_ was, if not actively fatal, then it was, at the very least, insufferable.

"Plenty here in the weekend papers," John muttered from behind a flying butress of broadsheet. "Plenty of mysterious crimes going begging this weekend."

"There's nothing mysterious about any of it," the younger Holmes seemed barely to have the energy to wave a limp hand feebly through the air. "It's all too predictably mundane and ordinary and boring," he muttered, lapsing into pained silence.

"A missing racehorse taken from its stable sometime during the night?" John wasn't prepared to give up quite so easily.

"Insurance fraud," Sherlock sighed.

"Then what about the wedding dress turning up on a scarecrow in Somerset with no sign of the bride-to-be?"

"She changed her mind about the wedding and decided to embark instead upon a life of petty crime among the tourist-rich enclaves of the South-west," the dark-haired man groaned softly as his brain threatened to implode.

"Really?" John dropped the paper down into his lap. "How d'you reckon that, then? There's been nothing in any of the other papers about it, I checked."

"_Argh_," Sherlock threw himself upright, fingers clutched in his hair. "I don't know and frankly, don't care what happened to the stupid woman who bequeathed her impossible gown to something far more fitting. Maybe she ran off with the Best man. Maybe aliens took pity on the rest of us and lifted her clean from the surface of the planet. I don't know and care even less for the knowledge even if it existed," he rolled back onto the settee, folding his arms over his face, blotting out the world.

An old hand at flatmate wrangling, John took no notice but continued to peruse the day's news. A small filler caught his eye. Now... _that_ was interesting.

"_Hmm_ ..."

"Hmm, what?" Sherlock unwrapped one arm and peered from the shadows at John's face.

"Nothing," the blonde man shook his head decisively. "At least, nothing that _you'd_ be interested in," he added.

"You said 'hmm' in a highly suggestive tone," the younger Holmes unwrapped the other arm from his face in order to scowl properly. "The barest minimum of good manners demands you elucidate."

Grinning behind the paper, John cleared his throat as he read out the brief piece.

"Strange occurrence late yesterday afternoon in Holland Park. Home-owners, husband and wife Nick and Josie Vallenda, were surprised when they returned home yesterday evening to find their large, detached home had been the target of a burglary in which nothing had been stolen. A small wreath of flowers had been placed on the mantelpiece. There was no report of vandalism. Neither Mr or Mrs Vallenda were able to assist police with further details."

There was a dead silence. John lowered the paper fractionally, squinting over the top to see if Sherlock had finally lapsed into a coma of terminal proportions.

"Did it say what kind of flowers were in the wreath?" the younger Holmes had swung himself into a sitting position, his brows furrowed.

Checking the tiny insert of print, John shook his head. "Nothing else here about it," he said. "Holland Park is full of those dirty great big double-fronted houses, isn't it?" he screwed up his eyes. "Those places have to be worth an absolute mint," he added. "Even the flats in that part of London go for millions, these days."

"Did the paper say which end of Holland Park the break-in took place?" Sherlock was being curiously calm about the whole thing. "Was there a house number?"

"Mmm ... nope; nothing here that says specifically what part of Holland Park it was," John laid the folded broadsheet across his lap. "Why? Thinking of going over there for a chat about the flowers?"

"John," Sherlock leaned forward and looked very serious. "If my suspicions are correct, someone in that house has been marked for death."

"Seriously?" John looked momentarily sceptical. "Then we have to let them know."

"And we would, if we had the address," Sherlock pressed the edge of his steepled fingers against his mouth. "I need to get that house-number as quickly as possible."

"Call Greg Lestrade, he should at least be able to get you the number, and you know he'll do anything to keep the body-count down."

"He's out of the country, I've already tried innumerable times," Sherlock stood suddenly, snatching up the paper and looking for the by-line. There was no name attached to the piece, but the paper was a large and well known in the City.

"Phone, John," Sherlock stared down at the paper held in one hand, holding out the other with the palm upturned.

"And where's yours?" John sighed, handing over his mobile.

"I'm chilling the battery in the fridge," Sherlock said absently as he keyed in the paper's main switchboard number.

"Crime desk, please," he said as the call was answered. "Yeah, '_ello?_ Who am I speaking to?" Sherlock's voice went from educated drawl to snipped Cockney in a flat second. "Oh, it's you," he sounded slightly mollified. "Look mate," he said. "I been waiting here wiv my camera for bleedin' ages; I was supposed to get a phone call to tell me which 'ouse to cover. Whaddya mean, which 'ouse? The one wot got broke into in Holland Park; someone called me out an' arsked for a photo, but never told me wot the number was."

There was a pause at the other end.

"Yeah," Sherlock straightened. "That'll do, _ta_, mate," he finished, ending the call and rounding on his flatmate with a happy little grin. "Number _nineteen_, John. Nineteen, Holland Park. Let's go!"

###

Mycroft Holmes didn't consider himself in the least voyeuristic; his role required that, on occasion, he needed the most appropriate tools in order to get the job done. And if this meant he had to resort to a somewhat heavier-than-usual coverage of the CCTV cameras, then so be it. Though he had people for this sort of thing, in _this_ instance, he was happy to take a more hands-on stance.

Sitting at his desk, his eyes scanned the several wide screens now positioned in a grid across one wall of his office. Each screen featured a different view, and his eyes roved between them, waiting for a very specific sequence of actions to take place.

One screen showed the exterior street-view of a very well-known restaurant in Chelsea. The _Five Fields_ was high up on the list of anyone who considered themselves knowledgeable in the gourmet world of London eateries. It was difficult enough to book a table for two on their busier nights, and to secure a table for five, was nigh impossible.

But not _entirely_ impossible.

Resting back in his chair, Mycroft waited and watched as the pre-theatre dinner-crowd arrived, ate and departed. He saw cabs come and go; limousines pull in and pull away. There were several very recognisable faces; people who might prefer not to be noticed by the general public, people who might be considered famous, or, in the case of at least one politician he'd watched sidle in through the open doors, _notoriety_ would seem a more likely option.

But he was watching for none of the famous or infamous. Rather, his gaze sought out a small and highly select group who were to dine at Five Fields this evening, and for one individual in particular.

A chauffeured Mercedes pulled to a halt at the kerb, the driver immediately moving to open the rear passenger door. The man who stepped forth from the shiny black car was immediately recognisable as Sir Anthony Kell; suave and handsome with a distinctly military bearing. A widower who had spent his entire adult life in defence of the Realm. Ex-Army Major, _Alpha_ and current Chief of the British Secret Service, more commonly known as _MI6_. In some respects, Kell was very similar to Mycroft himself and the elder Holmes knew he was one of the men he was going to have to keep a careful eye on. Kell's presence in the group was an essential part of The Plan.

Expecting the Mercedes to pull away, Mycroft was slightly surprised to see a second man exit the car, instantly identified as one Paul Chen Bai Wu, recently appointed Deputy Director of GCHQ Records in Cheltenham.

How _intriguing_ that two of Britain's most powerful and influential security agencies should be travelling together to what was clearly a social, and somewhat _public_, event. Obviously, they had been together before and decided to share transport to the restaurant, though why Wu would have any interest in a gathering of British and American Archival Management experts was a matter of quite some interest. As Kell's organisation was the nominal host of the international enclave, his presence was socially requisite, at least tonight. But Paul Wu? His being there was curious; Wu had not been included in the original group invitation, and Mycroft wondered how he had managed to gain entree.

The British-born eldest son of a famously solid Chinese Diplomatic family, Wu was _Beta_, slim, dark and delicate of feature. A noted intellectual and, oddly enough for someone in his job, a forceful peace-advocate, his public profile gaining immense support upon the publication on social media of arrest photos taken during a CND protest against Thatcher's _Polaris_ in the late eighties. In regards to his plan, Wu would be something of an unknown quantity and Mycroft felt his mouth flattening into a tight line of displeasure. The carefully-planned table of five had unexpectedly become a table of _six_.

As both men entered the low-profile and unpretentious restaurant, Mycroft's eyes moved across to a second screen, two screens, in fact, each view focused on a very particular table off to the left of the main restaurant space. Close to one of the external walls, the table had seating for six, although it was presently unoccupied.

Kell and Wu headed across to the bar where they accepted drinks and continued with a conversation that they had begun, no doubt, in the car that brought them here.

Not for the first time, Mycroft found the lack of audio in these situations a critical disadvantage and resolved to get his technical people onto a satisfactory resolution at the earliest opportunity.

In the meantime, however, he would have to make do, but he tapped out a message to Translation to have a lip-reader transcribe the Kell-Wu discussion as far as might be possible.

Mycroft's gaze was diverted to the original screen, where a second vehicle, this time a London cab, drew into the kerb.

A blonde man of medium height stepped out, holding the door open for a second passenger, a woman, with long dark hair and spectacles.

The man was, of course, Doctor Harrison Carter, ex-Emeritus Professor of Cryptography Studies at UC Berkeley and current Head of National Archives for the CIA in Langley, Virginia. With his carefully styled hair, gleaming white teeth and immaculate dark grey Brookes Brother suit, Carter, another _Beta_, embodied more than a hint of old Hollywood glamour, as his female companion no doubt appreciated. A clever, thoughtful man, reputed to be a ladies' man too, he had a series of failed marriages behind him, which begged the question of whether instinct was stronger than intellect.

The woman just now exiting the cab was equally esteemed in the elevated field of Data Management, managing, as she did, a major international unit whose task was, essentially, to maintain the security of any national or federal information that was entrusted to their care.

Doctor Zita Loretto, a distinctive _Alpha_ female, with an original doctorate in the preservation of ancient documents, had moved into mainstream data-management with a vengeance, writing her own classification software to meet some very specific and particular needs. It was said that this woman was going places within the US Federal law enforcement agencies, especially in the FBI, where she was presently a rising star. Loretto was dressed very plainly, almost severely, in fact, as if she cared nothing for the external, or perhaps cared too much and wanted to play the fact down.

Both of them entered the restaurant, just as a second cab arrived, the door opening to disclose a fair-skinned blonde woman, dressed in a smart, yet clearly relaxed manner, the bright blue of her outfit setting off the fairness of her short hair in the early evening streetlights. She looked young and lithe and lovely.

Though Mycroft had thought himself prepared, and despite him taking a slow breath, the sight of Grace Chandler as she crossed the pavement between kerb and restaurant entrance made his throat tighten and his heart speed. Over the last three months, and difficult though it had been, he'd deliberately maintained as complete an absence from her person as he could possibly manage, ensuring there was no communication or interaction between them whatsoever. It had been distinctly uncomfortable, but while there was still a faint possibility that his feelings for the Omega might have begun to wane in that time, it was imperative to test the hypothesis, but if his entire body responded like this after only _one_ glance ...

Mycroft sighed softly. It was as well he had taken steps to ensure Doctor Chandler's continued single status in that case. He had not sought a rival in the good inspector, and it was in no-one's interest to create competition when it was avoidable.

Taking a deeper breath, Mycroft sat back in his seat, moving his attention once more to the two inner camera-views as a waiter escorted Grace to the communal table, somewhat out of the way of the usual crowd of diners.

Kell and Wu were standing, shaking hands with their smiling American guests, indicating that they should choose one of the empty seats. Loretto took a chair backing up against the solid wall behind her, just as Sir Anthony took the one at her left, his view of the open restaurant as broad and unrestricted as hers.

Wu and Carter had remained standing, clearly discussing a point of the restaurant's architecture as Carter pointed upwards to the unremarkable ceiling, just as Grace was shown to the table.

A waiter opened a bottle of very good champagne and began to pour glasses of the bubbly wine as an _aperitif_.

Mycroft felt an uncomfortable grip of tension begin to make itself known as the three men already at the table turned to greet her, their body-language making it clear she was a very welcome addition to the group, polite smiles abounded.

There was even some light laughter.

He frowned.

As Grace rested her hand on the top of the one chair with its back to the door, Mycroft sighed resignedly at her trusting choice of seating. _Only an innocent would choose that chair_, he thought. Or someone who was determined not to allow the ubiquitous paranoia of the national security realm dictate their social behaviour.

But there was still an empty seat to her right, between Grace on the one side and Harrison Carter on the other; still one last player to arrive before the group was complete and The Plan moved into the next phase.

As he returned his gaze to the exterior of the restaurant, Mycroft blinked slowly as a very tasteful, dark-blue Jaguar Cabriolet drew to an perfect halt directly outside and parked in a space that had only moments before been filled by a small Audi; other traffic and pedestrians parting like the Red Sea to allow the vehicle's passage.

A man emerged, sleek, like the car; brown-haired, brown-eyed, the golden boy of MI6 and master of the most hush-hush and restricted of all archives in the British Isles; David Abram's smile was as glossy as everything else.

In his mid-thirties, a man of impeccable family, education and money, Abrams was not only one of the most well-known _Omega_ males in London, but was currently unattached and had been for some time. Rumour had it that his sexuality was on the fluid side, but no matter how hard the tabloids pried, there had been no trace of scandal uncovered.

Mycroft looked sage. Either the man had been incredibly fortunate, or there really was nothing to be unearthed, but he doubted it; nobody like Abrams reached such a position without _something_ in their past they'd prefer to keep quiet.

Strolling up to the table of five, he looked down at the only remaining chair, his eyes travelling naturally to the other members of the party. Everyone else he knew or had at least met briefly before, but on observing the beautiful blonde woman to his left, his face lit up with a sincere smile. Taking the only empty chair, Abrams nodded amiably around, but his attention turned, quite naturally, to the beautiful woman at his left.

"You have to be Doctor Chandler, the newly christened doyen of MI5?" he asked smiling all the while as he reached for her hand, holding it slightly longer than good form required.

"If you're asking if my name is Grace Chandler, and if I'm working for Gerald Palmer at Millbank, then the answer is _yes_," Grace smiled back, removing her hand before linking her fingers together on the table. "Though whether I shall ever be a doyen remains to be seen," she added in a friendly way.

"You're being far too modest," Abrams sat, leaning towards her at his side, his natural charm on full-throttle, his gaze taking in the fairness of her hair, the clear depth of her grey eyes and the vibrancy of her expression; he very much appreciated the fairer sex and this newcomer to the world of everything secret was indeed a stunner of the first water.

It was at that precise moment that David Abrams decided he was going to get to know Grace Chandler the Beautiful, a great deal better. His smile grew. "I'm going to be your newest best friend," he said, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

Meeting the eyes of the American woman at her left, Grace caught an amused raised eyebrow. "Is he always this enthusiastic?" she asked.

Leaning forward and lifting her fingers across the table, the American spoke very softly as she shook the British woman's hand. "Hi; my name is Zita Loretto and I live in Washington, which means I get to see David only once in a blue moon," the dark-haired woman smiled. "Having said that," Loretto added, knowing full well that Abrams could hear every word she said. "The only time I've seen him this keen was when he discovered several unknown letters addressed to Kim Philby sitting in the back of an old file," she said, tilting her head and sharing a teasing glance with the handsome MI6 Archivist.

"And thank _you_, Zita," Abrams turned his gaze back across to meet the scrutiny of the other men at the table. "Gentlemen," he said, raising his crystal _coupe_ to the rest of them in a toast. "To the Ladies. May _all_ our secrets be in such safe hands."

There was a faint murmuring as Kell and Carter repeated the toast, though Wu remained silent and suddenly watchful. It was unlike Abrams to be quite this effusive at a first meeting. Perhaps there was more going on here than was apparent? Were MI6 and MI5 up to something? Was it something that GCHQ needed to know about? He watched Sir Anthony from the corner of his eye.

Replacing his glass, David Abrams was suddenly all over the restaurant menu. "This place does a wonderful steak and kidney pudding," he grinned at the Americans. "Everyone should try it if you haven't been here before," he added, turning to Grace. "Full of proteins and iron to keep up your energy levels," he winked, grinning again.

Though he could not hear the words, Mycroft would lay good odds that he had construed almost the precise content of the discussion based on nothing more than a knowledge of the participants, the scenario and a detailed reading of their body-language.

His expression turned dark.

###

It was near-dark by the time Sherlock and John reached their goal, although there was just sufficient light for them both to see the enormity of the house and its detached relation from its neighbours on either side. Including the basement, each of these massive houses possessed five floors, with big, double-fronted bow windows on both the ground and first floors. There was a tiny window with a Juliet balcony in the centre of the third floor, and the attic spaces above. The entire place well-lit from the road and there were alarms everywhere. This was not the kind of place an amateur would pick on which to practice their burglary skills.

"Hate to think what this would go for, these days," John was scanning the place for any obvious signs of forced entry or recent external damage to door or windows. There was none.

"You're looking at the wrong things, John," Sherlock muttered over his shoulder as he stalked up the short path to the front door and pressed heavily on the bell, the cream painted house, just like all its brethren, glowing in the early summer evening.

The door was opened by a petite young woman, light-haired, light-eyed. She was immediately uneasy at their presence.

"Are you the police, again?" she asked. "I've told you everything I know at least three times."

"Not the police, Ms Vallenda," Sherlock smiled faintly. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague, Doctor John Watson. We both know exactly what has happened here, and exactly why you don't want the police involved," he stopped, raising his eyebrows. "Might we come in?"

"What do you mean, _exactly_ what happened here?" the woman stood her ground, regardless that Sherlock towered over her like some dark messenger of doom.

"Josie, isn't it?" Sherlock smiled fleetingly. "Your husband's family is in the circus, I believe?" he sighed, waiting for the woman's realisation that this conversation was far better entertained in private.

"Then you'd better come in," she said slowly, opening the black-painted double front door and beckoning them through into a spacious and well-appointed front lounge. Looking about them, John saw that the place had been done up quite nicely; new paint at the windows, expensive wallpaper and carpets everywhere. Even the furniture looked relatively new and probably pricy. The lounge seemed untouched; a place for guests that never came. The bright yellow chintz of the soft furnishings seemed barely touched by age or wear. There had been a lot of money spent on and in this house. A great deal of it.

"_Nick_," she called to her husband along the wide, tiled passageway. "This one knows about the circus."

Waiting until both the Vallendas were looking at him with unconcealed concern, Sherlock nodded at the raft of old family photographs that almost covered the entirety of one wall.

"You both come from circus-people," he observed.

John immediately focused on the larger, easier to see pictures. Indeed, each one showed two or more people in a large tent or hanging from rope-ladders, some in old-fashioned costumes. He peered closer. There was a distinct familial resemblance between the faces in most of the photographs.

"My father's family are originally from Germany," Nick Vallenda agreed cautiously. There was the slightest hint of a European accent in his voice. "They have been in the circus for many years. I met Josie there."

"The _Flying_ _Vallendas_?" John lifted his eyebrows and smiled. "Then I've seen some of your family perform," John looked impressed. "Pretty daring stuff, most of it."

"Josie and I have no connection to the circus anymore," Nick slid a protective arm around his wife's shoulders. "We are nothing to do with that side of the family anymore."

"And yet this break-in that clearly wasn't a break-in, was equally clearly very _much_ to do with the circus," Sherlock shoved both hands in his pockets as he began looking around the place, assessing the building's structure and dimensions. There were new locks on the windows and the glass itself sparkled.

Josie Vallenda looked very nervous. "Nothing was taken," she blurted out. "We told the police it was probably a prank."

"A prankster that breaks in to a well-guarded house in broad daylight?" he asked, sceptically. "A house that, even to the most ambitious of thieves would have offered a significant challenge, not the least being that their every action would have been visible from the street, and this is a fairly busy thoroughfare during the day. So how was it done? And _why?_ That would seem to be the critical question of the moment. Why was it done?"

"We told the police we didn't know anything about it," Nick Vallenda tightened his arm around an increasingly anxious Josie. "There's nothing more we can say about it."

"Ah, but we're not the police," Sherlock grinned. "And we can both tell when someone is lying to us from a mile off, can't we, John?"

"A mile off, easily," the blonde man shrugged as he watched the couple. "Sorry."

"So if you don't want us to go to the police and tell them what _we_ know ..."

"No! I don't want the police involved in this anymore than they already are!" Josie Vallenda lifted a hand and looked terrified. "_Please_."

"Then tell us everything about it, including the smallest detail," Sherlock plonked himself comfortably down in the nearest over-padded armchair and linked his fingers across his lap.

"Tea would be nice, too," he added.

Sighing with relief, the woman ran off towards the kitchen, leaving her husband to deal with the two strangers who knew far too much.

Taking a very deep breath and exhaling loudly, Nick Vallenda dropped into another of the armchairs.

"How much do you know?" he asked.

"Everything but the details," Sherlock nodded at John who looked solemn and nodded back.

"The wreath, for instance," John lifted his eyebrows. "Tell us more about that."

"Yes, where is it?" Sherlock frowned. "There was no report of the police taking it; they probably only wanted photographs of the thing. You must still have it, although given its source, you probably wouldn't want it to stay inside the house ... can you retrieve it from the bin?"

Josie Vallenda appeared in the doorway, a large shape encased in a black bin-liner in her hand. "I expected you'd want to see it," she murmured, handing it over before disappearing back into the kitchen where the clanking of china grew dangerously loud.

Nick rubbed a hand over his face. "It's not a very nice thing to find inside your house, Mr Holmes," he said. "Not a nice thing at all."

Unwrapping the thin black plastic, Sherlock was able to reveal a circular floral wreath, about twenty inches in diameter, with a central gap that was approximately eight inches across. The ring was heavy in his hands as the floral tribute was indeed fresh; probably made earlier that very day, or no more than the day before. There was no sign of any of the greenery dying or wilting and, other than the rough handling it had received being pushed inside the plastic bag, the thing looked in almost perfect condition. Sherlock flipped the thing over in his hands several times, but there was no card or indication of its maker.

Predominantly of white lilies and dark strings of ivy woven into a circlet, there were also sprigs of a coniferous plant, though exactly what it was, John had no clue.

"Yew, John," Sherlock rubbed the tips of the spiky greens between his fingertips and smelled the resultant residue. "In many cultures a symbol of death and rebirth, a second chance, if you will," he added, looking up from the wreath into the troubled blue eyes of Nick Vallenda.

"What second chance?" he asked, softly.

"No idea what you're talking about," their host sat stiffly in his chair, his face closed and unhelpful.

Sherlock sighed.

"Mr Vallenda," he began. "A burglar who is not a burglar broke into your well-guarded and quite fortified house in the middle of the day, at a time when you were not at home, taking nothing but leaving this," he lifted the wreath in one hand. "The intruder did not enter through any of the usual channels but instead managed to gain ingress through a single, small window high up in the third floor by the simple ruse of being a window-cleaner on a ladder. That particular window is far too high for the majority of people to consider safe, and the individual who broke in left no marks or evidence for the police to notice or document. That he or she then left a symbolic threat that also offered a message of possible redemption combined with the fact that neither you nor your wife want any outsider to have anything to do with this suggest that not only did you already know how this intrusion was accomplished, but also a reasonably good idea who did it," he paused. "This was very likely a member of your extended acrobatic family, Mr Vallenda," he added, sitting back into his chair and steepling his fingers.

"And so I'll ask you again," Sherlock's voice was still soft. "What second chance?"

###

Of course, Grace had heard of these people before; knew them by reputation and name, if nothing else. She had even attended one of Sir Anthony Kell's briefings a few weeks before, but she had stayed at the rear of the large room and realised he probably hadn't seen her. He certainly made no sign that she was recognised.

Paul Wu was looking at her oddly, as if he imagined something was going on between her and the overly charming man to her right. Grace had never met Wu before, though his reputation was one of cold calculation and stereotypical inscrutability, which she thought, was probably overkill; people didn't get to be deputy directors of any of the security agencies these days if they could be so easily put into a box. Maybe he'd just had a bad day.

Smiling at the waiter who took her menu choices, and waiting as David Abrams poured her another glass of champagne, Grace cast her attention across the table to her left as Zita Loretto and Sir Anthony were talking; heads close together. They were obviously well-known to one-another and probably quite good friends, judging by the familiarity with which they spoke, and their side-by-side closeness. Grace experienced something of a small shock when she observed Zita stroke an index-finger down the side of Kell's hand. The blatantly intimate gesture stopped almost as soon as it started, and Grace immediately looked away. But it was obvious something had been, or was, going on between them.

Feeling momentarily uncomfortable, as if she'd witnessed something she shouldn't, Grace turned her attention, a little more brightly than perhaps she might have otherwise done, towards the two men to her right. Both Harrison Carter and David Abrams were leaning back in their chairs, reminiscing about previous MI5 Archive personnel in a mildly amusing sort of way.

"And then there was … what was his name …" Carter frowned down into his glass. "That man with the different coloured eyes ..."

"Oh yes," Abrams laughed. "I'd forgotten him." He turned to Grace. "Apologies, Doctor Chandler," he grinned. "We've been trying to work out the last time Gerald Palmer was ever so fortunate as to find senior staff that was both expert _and_ normal," he paused. "You realise, of course, that MI5 has a reputation for recruiting both sly foxes _and_ lame ducks?"

Feeling the conversation was edging towards the inappropriate, Grace smiled diplomatically. "I'm sure the same might be said for all our organisations," she said. "The lure of great secrecy attracts all sorts of strange and absurd people," she added, staring guilelessly at them both over her glass of bubbles.

Harrison laughed. "_Ouch_."

"So how are you finding the old place down at Millbank," Abrams obvious decided to change tack as he put down his glass and leaned closer. Grace found the man a little too effusive for her taste and leaned slightly away.

"Don't mind David," the American beside him laughed again. "He's just genetically programmed to fall over himself every time he meets a clever woman."

"Especially if she knows anything about lyophilisation or orthochromatic emulsions," Abrams murmured, rolling his eyes jokingly. "I am sorry if I've been staring, but I just can't get over old Gerald actually recruiting someone who not only knows their stuff, but who looks so … so …" he waved a hand at her.

"So?" Grace couldn't help but laugh at his outrageous flirting. "Does that line really work on women you meet these days, Mr Abrams?"

"Oh, please, _David_," he looked sad.

"Only if you call me Grace," she laughed again, shaking his hand formally, before reaching across to shake Carter's hand too. She couldn't quite reach far enough to offer her hand to Paul, but going by the politely cool nod he gave her, the man probably didn't shake anyone's hand.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Sir Anthony lifted his voice a fraction to be heard over the growing sound of chatter and noise in the main body of the restaurant.

"Thank you for making yourself available for dinner tonight, I know private time is something precious to all of us, therefore your being here is a good indication of the seriousness which all of you will be bringing to our discussions over the next few weeks. I'm sure we'll all find this a productive and immensely useful project, and I, for one, look forward to advising the Home Secretary of the innumerable cost-savings we've been able to implement following this unique think-tank approach to Data Management in the major Western security agencies," Kell sipped from a glass of water.

"We begin tomorrow in Spring Gardens, and by now you should all have received your individual portfolios of material on which you will be expected to work both individually and as a team; each of you playing to your own strengths as well as the overarching strengths of this amazing and unprecedented gathering of experts. May I wish you all the most profitable of ventures."

Lifting his champagne glass, Sir Anthony smiled around the table as they all drank the toast.

"Since you start at nine o'clock in the morning, and as we _are_ on the public purse, we had better not linger too late here this evening," he joked dryly as the entrees began to arrive.

###

Mycroft felt calmer as he sipped a cup of tea. He knew precisely what to expect in theory, though the actual implementation of this early stage of The Plan was already more difficult than he had imagined. And yet, the plan, or at least _this_ _part_ _of the plan_, was itself incredibly clear-cut.

_This_ part of the plan was to test the hypothesis that he and Grace Chandler had reached some form of … unintentional attachment. Reluctant to use the word _bond_, despite the fact that it seemed to be a medical opinion _mot du jour_ in virtually every text or opinion he had consulted. But he would not use it, not yet.

And so, before he was able to proceed with the next component of his scheme, Mycroft felt it incumbent upon himself to provide Grace with a variety of potential suitors with whom she might form a more civilised connection.

The American _Beta_, Harrison Carter; handsome, erudite, learned and an expert in the same field as she, the man's noted good looks and charm, combined with his mental attributes and currently single status made him an eminently suitable partner. The same could be said for David Abrams, though he was slightly on the florid side and Grace's preferences appeared to be in somewhat less obvious. But still; who could be sure about these things? The Omega would be able to provide her with all the things she enjoyed; he was young and dashing and all the things that Mycroft felt he himself was not. Abrams would be a good foil for her.

The British-born Chinese, Paul Chen Bai Wu, though an intensely private man, was devoted in many ways to the same principles as Grace herself held in esteem. His private love was the restoration and curation ancient Asian documents, spending months at a time in desert caves and the dungeons of old imperial palaces hunting down hidden archives and dusty private collections. Such excitement would, Mycroft felt, appeal to the more adventurous aspect of her personality. It was also known that Paul Wu's rather wealthy family were pressing the _Beta_ to marry, an added incentive if one were required, for the man to look upon Grace with an eye to a potential mate.

Then there was the woman, Zita Loretto, _Alpha_. Alpha and bisexual. A brilliant and creative mind, Loretto seemed to offer a combination of brains, adventure and charm. Though there was no indication that Grace had ever felt any inclination to seek the affection of her own sex, Mycroft was being nothing if not thorough.

And finally, of course, there was Sir Anthony Kell himself. _Alpha_, highly intelligent and more or less ruthless, depending on the situation at hand. The man came from an old family, had been without a close female companion following the death of his first and only wife some several years since, and had a known preference for blondes. Kell was the closest analogue to himself that Mycroft could find, in terms of age and background, there were many similarities between them. That Kell reported indirectly to Mycroft's position was neither here nor there.

Mycroft sighed and frowned. He had set this part of the plan in motion because he wanted to be sure, absolutely and uncontestably _sure_ before he took this any further, that Grace Chandler would have every last opportunity to prove the medical experts wrong, to show him, once and for all that there was no attraction or connection or … bond between them. He did not have the luxury of time on his side and so had elected a hothouse environment as a proving ground. Whatever came of this, he had taken pains to ensure Grace would never know she had been royally set up. Now all he had to do was wait and see.

Well, there was _one_ other thing he had to do.

Mycroft lifted his phone once again.

###

It was a fine night and Sherlock wanted to walk for a while as the thoughts mulled around in his head. Since there was nothing for John to rush home for, he was happy to go along for the stroll.

"A warning, then?" he asked. "Whoever broke in left the wreath as a warning?"

"_Obviously_ a warning, John," Sherlock stalked forward. "And equally obvious is the intruder."

"You reckon it had to be one of the family back in Germany?"

"Who else? This _alleged_ window-cleaner is beyond farcical. It was obviously a ruse to enable him to get close to the house. Who looks at a window cleaner?"

"But why would anyone go to such lengths to leave a message like that?" John shook his head. "Why not just stick a note through the letterbox; a good old poison-pen letter?"

"Part of the weight of the message lies within an aura of fear and superstition, of which there are a great many in any industry involving the old Romany families," Sherlock slowed to a gentler pace beside his blogger. "The message was obviously a warning for the Vallendas to do something they have not done, or to cease doing something against the family's wishes."

"Yeah, but all they could tell us was that there was a bit of a problem with the marriage; that they didn't get the right permission before they went off and tied the knot," John shrugged. "Most people wouldn't have even bothered to get married as far as I can see; they'd have just run off together."

"John," Sherlock stopped and turned to face his flatmate. "Are you seriously telling me you noticed _nothing_ about that house?"

"It was a big house?" John lifted his eyebrows. "Must have cost them a fair bit."

"And not only the purchase price, which had to have been in the multiple millions in this part of London," Sherlock resumed his slow lope. "But the interior decor and furnishings; the running costs? By the calluses on his hands and the scuff on his right shoe, Nick Vallenda is holding down a job as a driver for a haulage company in the Home Counties, while Josie is little more than an administrative clerk in a legal office. How then, could either of them have found such a fortune as would be necessary to pay for and maintain a house in Holland Park?" Sherlock smiled fleetingly. "No, John," he shook his head again. "There's a lot more here than meets the eye, and I fully believe the leaving of the wreath to be as clear a death-threat as it's possible to make."

"You really think they're in danger?" John looked uncertain. "Shouldn't we let the police know?"

"And who would they believe?" the younger Holmes made a face. "The Vallendas or us? If they tell the police there's no threat, why would anyone listen to either of us?"

"Well, we both know one copper who'd listen, especially if there's a chance to prevent a death or deaths," John stared ahead. "You going to phone him or shall I?"

As Sherlock turned to look at his flatmate, John saw the mobile was already at his ear. "I hope he wasn't planning on an early night."

Lestrade answered after the first couple of rings.

"Thought it was too bloody good to be true," the Londoner's voice was clear. "Just back in after months away, and the first call I get turns out to be you."

"You've been away?"

The heavy silence of disbelief echoed loud from the other end of the conversation, followed by a short sigh. "So, what do you want, now that you've got me?" Greg Lestrade didn't sound exactly in a good mood.

"Want to stop a double murder?" Sherlock asked. "Want to solve an impossible crime?"

There was another heavy silence.

"Where are you?" Greg asked reluctantly.

"The young end of Holland Park," Sherlock looked at John. "If you're at home, John and I could be there in less than ten minutes at this time on a Sunday."

"I might be doing something," Lestrade demurred. "I might be heading out on a date."

"_Inspector_ ..." Sherlock grinned wolfishly.

"Yeah, yeah, _alright_. Come on round then. I'll put the kettle on."

Replacing the phone in his pocket, the tall, dark-haired man looked around at the cars in the street.

A black cab hove into view and stopped.

"I don't know how you do it," John shook his head wonderingly as they both climbed in.

###

So this was what it felt like to be the new kid on the block, Grace realised, as she answered yet another question from the group of people with whom she was going to be working for the next month. It was a strange feeling to be the centre of attention like this, but she realised that everyone at the table must have known each other for a fair old while, and she, well she was the newcomer. Hardly surprising then, especially in a world of secrets and unspoken knowledge, that the entire party seemed to find her fascinating. But enough was enough.

"I believe I've provided sufficient insight into my character and circumstances for one evening," she said, lightly. "I think it time someone else did the talking."

"And what would you like to know?" David Abrams grinned widely as he relaxed back in his chair. Dinner had been superb and the conversation hadn't lagged for a moment. There had been quite the party atmosphere. "How about where all the bodies are buried?"

There was a subtle cough from the far end of the table and Abrams turned to meet the eyes of his Director. Lifting a single eyebrow, the younger man held Sir Anthony's calm gaze. Grace had the feeling there was an entire conversation taking place under her nose, and she had absolutely no idea what was being said.

His mouth curving slightly, Abrams lifted a brandy snifter to his lips. "Perhaps not, then," he murmured. "Fancy a lift home when we're done here?" he asked, turning to look at Grace speculatively. "The Jag's just outside."

Having realised almost from the off that David Abrams was something of a Lothario, Grace managed to keep her face expressionless, although she was casting about for a way to turn him down in front of his friends and colleagues without making it obvious she was turning him down.

There was a slightly awkward silence.

"Doctor Chandler has already agreed to share a taxi with me as we are travelling in the same direction," Paul Wu's cultivated tones cut into the conversation. "If you had been listening, David, instead of preening like a peacock in front of Grace and Zita, you would have heard us making the arrangement."

"You were talking about Shang Dynasty oracle bones," Abrams sounded faintly sulky.

"And Boris Dynasty London cabs," Paul Wu stood, smiling faintly. "I think it is time those of us who live south of the river depart before we turn into pumpkins."

"Or rats," Abrams smiled easily back.

"Well, I'm certainly ready to go," Grace stood too, nodding at the nominal host of the evening. "My thanks for such a wonderful and entertaining dinner, Sir Anthony," she said. "I have learned a number of interesting things already and look forward to the revelation of further tantalising secrets," she blinked sideways at David Abrams before returning her gaze to the senior man.

The Chief of MI6 remained seated at the head of the table, brandy glass in his hand as he watched Gerald Palmer's latest acquisition make an adroit escape from the rather juvenile blandishments of his Director of Records. Not only had she kept everyone fended off throughout the entirety of the meal, but she had apparently managed to get the introverted Paul Wu on side. No mean achievement by anyone's standard. Nor did the – decidedly attractive – newcomer seem to have any idea of the stir she was going to produce; being an outsider was cause enough, but she was already unsettling the ranks in other ways that had nothing to do with the task ahead.

Meeting her eyes, Kell's official smile was practiced and easy. "I'm sure we are all going to get to know one another a great deal better over the next few weeks," he said, saluting her unhurriedly with his glass. "Until tomorrow."

Even though she had several glasses of champagne inside her, Grace was still sufficiently alert to detect an underlying timbre in the man's voice. It caught at her attention and for a second, her eyes sharpened their focus as she really _looked_ at MI6's Chief. There was an answering glint in his eyes that seemed oddly familiar.

She blinked. It had been a diverting evening and she was looking forward to the proper beginning of the project in the morning. Everything else could wait.

"Goodnight, then," she smiled again, collecting her bag and wrap, joining Paul who was already waiting outside on the pavement.

"I hope you didn't mind my stepping in like that?" the Deputy-head of GCHQ lit a cigarette with a slim lighter. "David Abrams can be somewhat overwhelming at times."

"If he brings the same passion to his work, then his reputation for brilliance and determination is deserved," Grace laughed lightly. "But thank you for giving me an easy and diplomatic way out," she added. "Do you really live south of the Thames?"

"Near the Elephant and Castle," the man smiled. "Drives my mother insane."

"Oh? How so?" Grace walked alongside as they wandered down the pavement in search of a waiting cab.

"My mother is a delightful woman and has lived in the UK and Europe for more years than anyone can remember," Paul Wu sucked in a breath of smoke. "She's British to all intent and purposes in every respect, bar one," he looked wearily fatalistic.

"That being?" Grace was intrigued.

"She is _insanely_ desperate for me to marry and produce a male grandchild for the family," Paul shook his head and sighed deeply. "She's become so obsessed with the notion that I had to leave and find my own place, and I just grabbed the first flat I could afford."

Grace nodded in sympathy. She knew all about the London property market. "Do your parents live in town?"

"Oh, _god_ yes," Paul took another swift inhale of smoke. "They're got an enormous great mausoleum in Kensington, of which they use only part," he shook his head. She keeps asking me if I've met anyone _nice_ recently. Last year she tried to talk me into an arranged relationship."

"And have you?" Grace asked. "Met anyone nice?"

Seeing an empty cab ahead, Wu lifted his hand in a hail. The cab flicked its _taken_ light on for them.

"Not that I haven't met some very pleasant women," Paul held the rear door open for her as she climbed in. "But I'm simply not the right sort for marriage," he said, taking the seat beside her. "On the one hand, I'm neck-deep in things I can't ever talk about for three-quarters of the year, and when I'm not up to my eyes in the Official Secrets Act, then I'm off on expeditions and hunts in old ruins; what kind of wife would want a husband that does those sort of things?"

Grace laughed. "The sort of wife that would want to come _with_ you, of course," she smiled. "Don't tell me you haven't met a single female on your travels who likes the same things as you do? Who enjoys all the digging around in caves and in the back of ancient, cobweb-ridden collections?" she laughed again. "I won't believe it."

Giving the driver her address, Grace sat back in the seat and waited for her companion to come up with a response.

"Well," he paused, thinking. "There have been one or two friends who might not _hate_ such a lifestyle, although it is asking a lot of a woman to rough it, trailing around the edge of the Gobi desert in the heat of Summer looking for hillside caves, don't you think?"

"And are those friends of yours of the female persuasion?" Grace already knew the answer.

"Well … yes. One or two," Paul looked at her strangely. "But neither of them would want me for a husband, surely?"

"Why ever not?" Grace narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. "Are they already married? Gay? Have you been horrible to them in any way?"

The idea of being deliberately horrible to a friend was offensive, and he frowned. "No, of course not," Paul looked at her again. "It's just that I never would have … never thought that they would …" his words tailed off into silence.

"It's entirely your choice, of course," Grace leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment. "But if the only reason you're off marriage is because you think you'll never find the right kind of woman, then you're looking in the wrong places."

"Mother wants me to marry a Chinese woman," he muttered as an afterthought.

Grace coughed to hide a snort of laughter. "You're on your own there, I'm afraid," she sighed. "Only you can decide how much your mother is going to control your choices, and by the looks of things, you've already made up your mind on that score, too."

Their cab crossed Westminster Bridge and headed across Southbank towards Stamford Road.

"You live around here?" Paul sounded a little bit impressed.

"I managed to buy half a floor of an old Bonded warehouse and it's taken me years of work and all my savings to do the conversion, but yeah," she smiled. "It's wonderfully handy for everything, and it's all mine, so I can't complain."

"I should say not," Wu looked around as the cab pulled into Barge House Street.

"Want to come in for a coffee?" Grace checked her watch. "It's still fairly early."

An uncertain smile dawned on her cab-sharing companion's features. "Are you sure you don't mind?" he asked. "Women don't usually ask me in for coffee."

"Oh, you poor man, come on _in_. You can tell me more about your dragon of a mother."

With a happy expression, Paul Wu paid off the cabbie and followed his newest colleague into the foyer of the old building.

###

"You've done this place up really well," John looked around him. Lestrade's little house-in-the-wall was not so little after all now that several of the internal walls had been taken down. In fact, the whole place seemed very open and comfortable. "Ta," he added, taking the mug of tea Greg handed him.

"So tell me all about this double-murder you think I can prevent," he said, putting a second mug down on the coffee table beside Sherlock and taking a seat in the only other leather armchair.

"Married, ex-circus acrobats under threat of death if they don't stop doing something they've been doing," Sherlock lay back and stared up at the ceiling in thought.

"Under threat of death from who?" Lestrade sipped his tea.

"_Whom_, Inspector," the younger Holmes leaned forward again. "From other circus acrobats, obviously."

"Obviously," Greg wrinkled his forehead and turned to John for help.

"Couple in Holland Park had their house broken into today, but nothing was taken, instead, whoever did it left this behind on the mantelpiece," John handed over his phone with a photo of the floral wreath.

"You'll note the use of Yew, Inspector," Sherlock muttered.

"_Yew?_" Greg mouthed the word at John who grinned and, after enlarging the picture significantly, pointed out several of the coniferous spiky bits.

"Ah yes, _Yew_," Lestrade nodded portentously. "Of course."

John choked on his mouthful of tea and Sherlock looked peeved. "You'll not be quite so facile when you have another two corpses to explain," he objected.

"All very true, Sherlock," Greg realised the dark-haired man was entirely serious. "Why don't you tell me everything about the situation?"

Taking a sip of his tea, Sherlock did exactly that.

###

At home now for the night, Mycroft tapped his laptop awake and retook his seat, setting the small tray down beside him. A side plate of dry crackers and Stilton, with a glass of decent burgundy was all the dinner he was going to get, so he might as well dine in comfort.

Opening the surveillance input at the point where he'd left off earlier in the evening. The dinner at _Five Fields_ had been drawing to an end, and he wanted to see how it all ended. He caught up with the various camera feeds just as Grace and Paul Wu walked out of shot.

_Damnation_.

Debating whether to watch the rest of the dinner party break up, or attempt to follow Grace to her home, he dithered for a moment, before returning to the CCTV feed from opposite her building in Barge House Street.

Within a couple of minutes, a cab slowed to a halt, and he watched Grace step out. He smiled. She looked happy, as if the evening had been a success.

Mycroft felt a sensation of something resembling pleasure waft over him.

The sensation vanished in the next instant as he watched, disbelievingly, as Paul Wu clambered out through the open cab door and onto the pavement behind her. The smile on the man's face as he paid off the driver, was plain to see. Mycroft felt his stomach tense involuntarily as he saw the GCHQ Deputy Director of Records follow Grace into the building.

He hadn't realised he was standing until the back of his legs bumped against the chair. He sat slowly, a horrible chill creeping through him, any hunger he might have been experiencing, vanishing in the uproar of his thoughts.

_Oh God._ What had he done?


	2. Chapter 2 Implementation

**Implementation**

_The Night Before – 60.3 Miles – An Unworthy Response – Roses and Ruses – A Lost Cause – Resistance is Futile – The Cottage – Machiavelli – Fractionally Lighter Than Gravity – Thinking of You._

#

#

After an informative and surprisingly relaxing chat with Paul Wu over a cup of coffee, Grace felt she now knew a great deal more about the familial expectations of old Chinese families in general, and about his mother's in particular. She also recognised that the quiet and somewhat introverted man probably didn't get much of an opportunity to speak to many women beyond the course of his job. It was rather sweet that he felt sufficiently comfortable with her to unburden himself a little. And then of course, he had spotted the dozens of reclaimed ancient documents she had framed and hanging in the entry room of her apartment; after that, the conversation took off on an entirely new level. Had there been no pressing engagement in the morning, they might well have talked all night, but it was just after eleven when Grace gave way to a major yawn.

"Sorry," she said. "It's been a long day."

"And we do have to be on top form tomorrow, or the others will take great pleasure in announcing our faults," he agreed, getting to his feet. "They might not mean to be unsportsmanlike, but the work we do is fiercely competitive."

"Then just as well I can come to you if I have a question," Grace grinned, supressing yet another yawn.

"It would be delighted to be considered as your mentor as you settle into the group," Paul smiled back. "But now I really must be off. I'll see you in Spring Street at nine?"

"In the MoD Conference Room on the second floor?"

"You have your temporary ID?" Paul looked serious. "They won't let you an inch past the security desk without it. The MI6 people are like hawks."

"Got everything I need, thanks," Grace walked him to the door. "It'll be good to have a friend in the middle of all this," she waited for him to leave.

"Until tomorrow, then," he bowed slightly and was gone.

After making sure everything was locked up for the night, she did a final quick check to see in any of her team had sent questions that needed a response before the morning, and then headed for bed.

Spreading out the thick folder of information she would be taking with her the next day, she rechecked to be sure there was no last minute detail she'd missed among the raft of paperwork she'd been given to read and digest. She sighed. If there was one thing all of the security organisations seemed to share by the bucket load, it was an incurable addiction to paperwork; screeds and screeds of the stuff. Finally packing everything back into the folder, Grace turned off the light and thought about the individual project she was expected to propose during the month-long secondment and realised she'd already found what she wanted to do; how to maintain the standards of preservation without the avalanche of paper that lay behind every single record. Each of them at the practicum had been told to select a personal project, and this would be hers.

Closing her eyes, pleased now she had found her mission, she was smiling as she drifted off to sleep. The next few weeks were going to be exciting and fun, she was sure of it.

###

Their plans were finally moving forward; Jason Redcar felt the tension in his neck and shoulders start to fade now that things were actually moving. It was the waiting he couldn't stand, never could.

The basic premise of the plan was simple. They were being paid a very great deal of money to abduct a very senior member of the British Security forces, _the_ most senior, in fact. Given the penchant for such individuals to be somewhat paranoid about their own security – and Jason was well able to see the irony in this – then any attempt at kidnapping was likely to be met with extreme and ongoing resistance, resistance that would be carrying a variety of lethal weaponry. Thus, after much deliberation and searching and serious contemplation about giving the whole thing a miss, a single window of opportunity had been discovered. There was one point during the entire forthcoming twelve-months when this particular target might be less rigorous about his security, simply because of the event and the event's location.

It had been decided that a grab during this social event was potentially viable, and Mr Roberts, whom Jason knew from personal experience to be a consummate strategist, had gone to work. So far, the planning stage of this rather more than usually delicate operation had taken almost six months, and Jason was heartily sick of the wait.

But now, _finally_, the operation had been given the green light; confirmation had been received of the man's attendance at an event that took place only once each year; always at the same time and always in the same place.

A time that was only two weeks away now, and a place that Jason was about to get to know very well indeed.

Under cover of darkness, he stowed two large suitcases in the back of his inconspicuous Toyota, Jason Redcar slipped into the driver's seat and flicked on his GPS. Apparently, it was precisely 60.3 miles, or one hour, thirty-one minutes, to Oxford. Maybe even less at this time of night.

Starting the quiet engine, he sat back and prepared to enjoy the drive. It wouldn't take long.

###

Of course, as soon as temporary panic had hit, Mycroft had dismissed it as both foolish and beneath either of them. Not only was it none of his business whomever Grace decided to invite into her apartment, but she was definitely not the kind of person who, under normal conditions, would fling herself at a total stranger. Nor, come to think of it, would Paul Wu.

Besides, this was why he'd orchestrated the entire secondment, wasn't it? To have all those uniquely qualified and specially selected individuals in the same place as her; to give her one _last_ chance to prove she had made no psychological or physiological link with him? The very notion she might be contemplating a relationship with someone she'd just met was absurd and it had been unworthy of him to consider the idea.

But _something_ inside him hadn't liked Paul Wu's presence in Grace's apartment, regardless of how absurd or unworthy the thought had been. Mycroft reached the unpleasant conclusion that even if she had forged no link with him, he could not be sure the converse was true.

Giving up attempting to analyse his response, Mycroft had nevertheless determined to stay watching the CCTV feed just a little longer, and – whatever it was inside him that had responded so powerfully – relaxed noticeably when he saw Paul Chen Bai Wu exit the Barge House Street building a little after eleven. It would have been obvious to even the most untrained of observers that Wu hadn't even removed his suit jacket during the time he'd been inside with Grace, and Mycroft's eyes were far from untrained.

He decided to call it a night. His Plan was about to move into Stage Two, _Implementation_, and he would need to be at his sharpest; once events began to move, he had a feeling they would move very rapidly indeed.

###

The morning was fair and boded well for the rest of the day. Catching the early news and forecast while she was munching her cornflakes, Grace was pleased that the weather was looking good for most of the week; sunny with some showers later. For early June, this was a very positive sign. For London, it was barely short of a miracle.

She'd already organised her clothes for the first week in the lion's den and donned for her first day, a smartly-tailored trouser suit of grey with dark amethyst cuffs and stitching. Pinning pearl studs to her ears and looping a long pearl rope several times around her throat, she was good to go. Throwing the thick folder of papers into her ancient black-leather Condotti briefcase, she made sure her soft leather shoes were of the walking variety as she intended to stroll the twenty-odd minutes it would take her to reach Spring Gardens from Southbank. The morning was warm; there was the scent of growing things in the air, and she felt incredibly excited. It was going to be a good day.

Leaving Barge House Street, she walked briskly towards Hungerford Bridge, which would take her straight across the Embankment and into the Ministry of Defence. Within a half-hour of leaving her apartment, Grace was crossing Whitehall, heading towards the magnificent and massive stone portico that fronted the Ministry of Defence building, once part of Henry VIII's primary London residence. The great carved statues atop the enormous limestone plinths outside the main entrance loomed overhead as she walked up the steps and right through the central space between the two, three-story-high pillars guarding the entryway to the ancient palace. The heels of her shoes made little sound on the tiled stone floor as she strolled past pairs of black marble pillars towards the security officer's desk at the far end of the wide entry-hall.

Most unusually for British security guards, these men, and a couple of women, Grace noted, were not only thoroughly kitted-out with Kevlar and the various tools and devices of their trade, but they were all exceedingly well armed. Having been here before to attend Sir Anthony's briefing some weeks previously, she was unsurprised by the sombre and serious demeanour of the guards, but the guns looked darkly unpleasant.

Presenting herself at the nearest checkpoint, Grace opened her briefcase, extracting not only the new ID, which she handed over, but also the letter of instruction, requiring her to attend this place on this day, as well as her own usual ID from MI5. Handing over her bag to be inspected, she waited as her credentials were verified.

"Good morning, Doctor Chandler," the guard holding her badge up to a nearby scanner smiled at her as he hooked a brand new lariat through the corner of the MoD ID card and handed it back. "Please wear this around your neck at all times while you are on the premises," he said. "In case of an emergency, please follow any instructions from the uniformed personnel," he added, ushering her through an airport-style, full-body metal detector. When no alarm sounded, her briefcase was returned.

"Main lifts to the second floor are those ones yonder," the same guard pointed to a bank of four, steel-panelled doorways. "Turn right, down the end of the corridor and then left," he instructed. "Someone will be on the lookout for you."

"Great, thanks," Grace grabbed her case and headed to the lifts, following the directions, she found herself outside a high, old-fashioned wooden door. There was a simple sign.

_Second Floor Conference Room_.

Turning the cold brass handle, Grace had no idea what she would see on the inside ... and was amazed at what she _did_ see.

On the outside, the room looked no different from the twenty others she'd passed by in the corridor; oldish fitments and fittings; plain wood, boring tiled stone floors and the slight shabbiness that seemed to be the hallmark of many an old government building. On the inside, however, it was a different world indeed.

Brand-new ergonomic furnishings, verging on the luxurious. Banks of plasma screens on the walls around the room, _all_ the walls: there were no windows in this space, and it was quite a _large_ space. A clutch of unopened VAIO ultrabook computers nested together on a central table; a complete buffet of pastries, fruits, together with elegant glass presses of what had to be fresh coffee and tea stood over by the farthest wall. Large carafes of iced water and fruit juice glistened with condensation. There was enough here to keep a small army going for the entire day.

But the most interesting thing she saw was the main central table.

Comprised of what appeared to be ten individual segments, the entire table was designed to be split apart into separate and individual desks, each one stocked with its own materials and with a space for a laptop. At the present moment, the table was whole and unmarred by anything more than the faintest of lines indicating where each segmented desk would part company from its neighbour.

Realising she'd have to take one of the places, Grace checked to see if the desk she'd chosen had already been claimed, but there was nothing to suggest anyone had beaten her too it.

"Hi Grace," Zita Loretto stirred sugar into her black coffee as she returned to her own chosen seat. "Looks like we're the early birds to this shindig."

"Never been in here before; it's quite impressive," Grace walked over to grab a cup of the aromatic coffee for herself. She took a seat and looked around, paying greater attention to the details of things. The ceiling and the upper parts of all four walls were covered in a subtle but visible covering of what looked like uneven white foam. It was as if the decorator had gone mad with a huge box of giant foam Lego pieces. Zita followed her gaze.

"Cutting-edge sound proofing," she said, her American accent clear as she nodded at the clumpy white stuff. "Does the same thing to sound waves that stealth-technology does to radar. Nobody's going to be able to listen in on us in here," she said.

"Then what are those for?" Grace pointed a finger at a clear-glass covered dome in the centre of the ceiling. It was clearly home to a multi-lens CCTV camera, its central position permitting a relatively open view of everything in the room.

Zita laughed happily. "My dear, you _are_ working in the security services, or hadn't you noticed?" she smiled. "As if they'd let any of us get together without checking we're not about to storm the ramparts."

Grace smiled in return. "I'm still getting used to all of this, I guess," she said, waving a hand. "Sometimes I think I know what Alice must have felt when she went down the rabbit-hole."

"It gets easier," Zita moved over to the desk with the stacked laptops. "I think these are for us."

"Really?" Grace followed her over. "That's a little excessive for office supplies, don't you think?"

"_Nah_, I pick up one of these little beauties almost everywhere I have a project, these days," the American woman helped herself to one of the sleek Ultrabooks, carrying it and her coffee across to a desk where she sat. Shrugging, Grace did the same, powering up the little computer and watching as it went through its self-diagnostics before displaying and intriguing, but odd-looking crest in the centre of the screen, showing a golden lion standing upright holding a crozier, against a blue background on a white shield. On the top left corner of the shield was the flower of a purple iris and in the opposite corner was a tree. On the very top of the shield was a small stone castle in the shape of a crown and beneath the whole thing was a banner, which read _Par Notre Volonté_.

Grace laughed. Someone around here had a sense of humour.

"What's the joke? I don't get it." the American stared at the crest on her own laptop.

"It's the heraldic crest of the ancient town of _Ville de Saint-Jérôme_ in Quebec," she said. "Those're the symbols of Saint Jerome."

"Yes, and?" Zita Loretto's interests clearly lay elsewhere than in historical miscellany.

"Saint Jerome is the patron saint of Libraries," Grace raised her eyebrows. "Someone's having a little fun with us, I think, especially with the motto."

"By our _desire?_" Zita wasn't sure her High School French was up to it.

"More like 'By our control'," Grace grinned as she looked around. "I doubt this place has much to do with anyone's desire, do you?"

Laughing with her, Zita sat back and began playing with her new toy as the main door opened to admit three of their colleagues for the duration; David Abrams, a crisp white shirt beneath a dark suit making his gleaming smile all the brighter; Harrison Carter, in more casual garb with a light raincoat slung over the crook of his arm, and finally, closing the door behind him, was Sir Anthony Kell, understated and impressive in an immaculate dark suit, he _exuded_ authority.

Observing the women had beaten them to the meeting; Abrams's grin grew wider and more flirtatious finessing his walk with a slight swagger

It was common knowledge around the place that Zita Loretto was an _Alpha_; that kind of information, though rarely spoken of in open conversation, nevertheless made for fascinating and irresistible gossip behind closed doors. The idea of being able to chat up a powerful and intelligent Alpha female for the next few weeks was a tantalising challenge, and David Abrams was nothing if not up for a challenge.

His eyes flicked to the composed and cool blonde sitting next to the American expert, every scrap of her attention focused on the small laptop computer at her fingertips. Grace Chandler was something of a mystery, and if there was one thing Abrams liked even more than a challenge, it was a beautiful mystery. He mentally rubbed his hands. This was going to be an exceptional few weeks ahead and he was determined to wring every jot of value from the possibilities as they presented themselves.

Walking over to the refreshment table, Harrison Carter poured himself a black coffee and ladled in several sugars, silently chastising himself for his sweet tooth. He watched the younger MI6 man make a beeline for the two women and smiled inside. The CIA Archivist considered himself far too old for the kind of games his more energetic colleagues liked to play. At his time of life, Harrison was content to let the ladies come to him, not that he seemed to have any real shortage of female companionship, although his latest divorce had left him weary of the whole game. Perhaps he ought to simply pack everything up and go commune with nature up in the Rockies.

Yet the sound of low female laughter caught inevitably at his attention and he turned to see, catching sight of Grace as she smiled again at some comment or other that either Zita or David had made.

The MI5 woman was indeed something worth watching, Harrison admitted to himself. Perhaps nature could commune without him for a while longer.

Anthony Kell stood apart from the rest of the small group, his phone to his ear. He was taking stock of the latest developments in a certain operation that was to involve him personally in the near future. Two of his own intelligence operatives had confirmed the report of a French DGSE officer that a major player in the British security services had been targeted for abduction. Nobody yet had a line on _who_, and there were several possibilities, including himself. Nor had they been able to discover _where_ or _when_ the attack was scheduled, or even what kind of situation might be considered a trap. The invisible security fences around all of those individuals now considered particularly vulnerable had been both tightened and strengthened, and Kell was finding it all just a bit too irritating. Normal security; people watching his back, his decisions, his private plans, was one thing and he'd reluctantly learned to accept such intrusions while he was the Head of MI6. But this recent additional layer he was finding all but suffocating. Everywhere he turned; there was another stranger, another unknown pair of eyes. Every decision he made that involved his person being in a place other than wherever he was currently standing, was now being second-guessed and 'sanitised' before he was even allowed to step outside. And yet he could scarcely complain.

At least here, in this windowless room, he'd be safe and might possibly get some time away from the suffocating wrapping of new security. He called his more intrusive guards, telling them he'd be in conference for the next several hours and that they could all take a breather until Noon. He had no real intention of staying here after the formal opening, but the idea of playing a little truant was an attractive one. Returning the phone to an inner pocket of his jacket, he thought about getting himself some tea. Cup in hand, he turned to watch as the experts gathered around Zita Loretto as she demonstrated her new thumbprint recognition program.

There was only one person missing.

"Anyone seen Paul this morning?" he sipped the tea. It was a relatively decent brew, considering it was an MoD production. He lifted his eyebrows speculatively wondering if he had a food-taster now as well as everything else.

"Not since last evening," Carter looked away from the ultrabook he'd selected for himself. "Grace took him home, didn't you?" he grinned down at her teasingly.

She looked up. "I haven't seen Paul since ..."

Whatever Grace was about to say faded as the main door opened yet again, allowing the slender, darkly-suited form of Paul Wu to sidle in.

"So sorry, everyone," he smiled, lifting a hand apologetically. "Couldn't find a cab and then in reception, I had to sign for these before I could bring them up," he added, lifting his other hand.

Which held a truly _lavish_ bouquet of beautifully-wrapped, dark red roses, their fragrance a thing of substance even from the doorway.

Walking across to the desk at which Zita and Grace were seated, he laid the heavy bunch down in front of the blonde. "For you, I believe," he said, tweaking his eyebrows while managing to sound both pleased and vaguely shocked.

"You bought me ... flowers?" Grace looked between Paul's face and the magnificent dark red blooms whose perfume already filled the air around her.

The GCHQ man laughed. "Not that I'd mind buying you flowers," he grinned, heading over towards the coffee. "But these were already waiting for you when I came in; I'm merely the delivery boy."

"Is there a card?" Zita peered enthusiastically without touching. "There has to be a card."

There was no card.

Grace shook her head, completely at a loss. _Who would be sending flowers like this? Who knew she would even be here today, in this place?_ The list of candidates was on the small side, she realised, looking around her. The only people who knew she would be here were in this room. Gerald Palmer knew as well, of course, but the idea that he'd choose this precise moment to send her such evocative flowers was nonsensical. It had to be someone in the room with her _right now_.

Lifting her eyes, Grace looked at the five other people sharing the space with her. It was one of them, she knew it. _But who?_

"I have no idea who would send me such glorious blooms," she spoke quietly, though everyone could hear her clearly, even as she tipped her face into the mass of velvet petals. "But they're beautiful and whoever it was, I thank you for them."

"You think it was one of us?" David Abrams leaned over the bouquet and inhaled deeply. "_Mm_," he nodded. "Nothing but the best for you, I see," he grinned again. "Someone's hammered the plastic for this little lot."

"Buy a lot of flowers, do you?" Harrison Carter leaned back in his chair. "Makes you a prime suspect, in that case," he grinned. "Want to confess now?"

"Not that I would have minded buying such lovely flowers for such a lovely lady," Abrams smiled winningly at Grace through half-closed eyes. "But these aren't mine, I'm afraid," he paused for a second. "Though the next ones might well be," he smiled brightly. "Is there a florist's sticker anywhere? There are ways of finding these things out, you know."

But there was no sticker.

"Then I don't really need to know, do I?" Grace looked around for a vase or something large enough to hold water for the roses. Paul brought over one of the large glass jugs filled with chilled water. "That should hold them for the day," he said. "Shall we put them over here?"

Allowing her gift to be transported over to the nearest side-table, Grace shrugged and brought her thoughts back to the reason she was here.

"Shall we begin?" Sir Anthony stood with his back to the farthest wall, a series of huge blank monitors behind him.

Settling down into their various chosen seats, the five archival experts, three British and two American, gave the Chief of MI6 their full attention.

"In today's swiftly-changing world, in this life we enjoy, fraught as it is with threat and danger, the one thing we all accept we need to have, what we have long-agreed we _must_ have, is a total supporting network of accurate and comprehensive information," Kell picked up a small black box, pressing a button. Immediately, all the screens behind him came to vivid life, each screen showing an aerial view of a major international city.

_London; New York; Paris; Dubai; Tokyo; Rome; Hong Kong_.

"In the business of security, we can never be sure where the next danger might arise, or where we might have to focus our collective attention in order to preserve both peace and the safety of the public," he stood, sliding both hands into his trouser-pockets, looking down at the floor.

"We, and by _we_, I mean the collective heads of the various organisations represented here today, have been persuaded to develop a new, multilateral program which will enable any of us to connect, through a variety of search options, into any database of information in any of our respective agencies. If this initiative is successful, it may be opened further to include such luminaries as Interpol and other, European organisations. But first, we need to design and construct the basic shape of the thing, and that is why all of you have been invited to this place at this time,"

Kell paced slowly back the other way, the room utterly silent.

"Two weeks ago, each of you were given a folder of information and asked to review the data it contained, with a view to locating any specific faults or weaknesses. Further, you were each asked to select an individual project connected to your department's mission in order that you might work on it here, in the company of your peers and fellow experts. The time has come when you are going to be asked to contribute your knowledge and every part of your skill to the creation of this new, super-archive that we will, for want of a better title, call _Omni_."

Sir Anthony paced back toward the centre again. "You are not expected to achieve total completion in the next four weeks, but you will be expected to work together in order to establish the basic framework of the new archive; the underlying support-system and methods of access, as well as integrate the basis of your own project," he added. "Everything in this room is at your disposal. Every form of assistance you might require is on call, and you may speak with whomsoever you wish on the secure Comms reaching out from this ..." Kell extended his arms to encompass the room and the world beyond in its entirety. "Your temporary home away from home."

There was an extended silence.

"I'm sure you will have questions, but I suggest you table them until your first group discussion after lunch which will be facilitated by an external facilitator as I must return to my desk and the world of the less-enlightened," he said, a rueful smile curving one side of his mouth. "In the meantime, please explore the facilities and begin your discussions."

Grace sat for a few moments, letting it all sink in. There had been no inkling that this secondment was going to be anything like this; she felt both awed and thrilled to bits to be involved. Lifting her eyes, she looked straight into Harrison Carter's face. He immediately puffed out his cheeks and rolled his eyes.

"No pressure there, then," he grinned. "What project did you decide on?"

Grace put both hands over her eyes for a second. "I had some grandiose notion of removing paper entirely from the process," she said. "I must be mad."

"Not as mad as me," Harrison laughed. "I was going to design a secure program for accessing commercial databases anywhere in the world."

"I was thinking about virtual data-mining," Zita sighed extravagantly. "Interrogating an archive in VR," she added. "I know it sounds all science fiction, but I wanted to try." She turned to Abrams. "What about you, David?"

"I," he paused for drama's sake. "Want to design an entirely new classification mechanism for every archive so that we are all, quite literally, on the same page," he smiled, shrugging. "Don't think I'll get far in four weeks, though."

Paul Wu was stood silently by, a frown marring his usually smooth skin.

"What's up, Paul?" Zita laid her laptop down. "You look worried."

"Not worried," Wu shook his head gently. "Thinking."

"About?" Harrison stood to get some more coffee, but paused, waiting for the younger man to say what was on his mind.

"About the fact that each of you have just described a facet of what might be an entire system," he said, slowly, his eyes flicking between each of them. "Something that is virtual, digitised, accesses all forms of databases and is classified in an entirely new way?" He smiled, his narrow face for once looking happy. "Doesn't that sound like a new form of archive to you?"

Silence fell among them as each one digested the notion.

"Well done," Sir Anthony spoke from behind them as he scrutinised his watch. "Only seven minutes into the conference, and you've already mapped out what Omni will look like," he smiled, charmingly. "Something of a record, I think?"

###

Mycroft signed the last of the formal reports on his desk, handing them back to Anthea as she brought him a tray of tea-things. "My next appointment is still at twelve?" he asked, confirming his understanding.

It was. Which meant he had approximately one hour to expend as he might. Upon his assistant's departure, he opened a secure browser and immediately went to a very private and very specific website.

Not really even a website. It was one of several an ultra-secure portals established precisely for this type of situation; to enable him to be aware, to _always_ be aware of meeting and conference proceedings even though he might be thousands of miles hence. His uniquely elevated status within the British governmental system meant there was not a single meeting-room with Level Two Comms tech or higher, to which he was not privy. And while there were locations categorised at even higher levels, this particular gathering-place sat nicely at Level One. This meant he could track everything that was seen, said or supported. The process of enabling such intimate relations with both the CIA and the FBI presence in London had been mooted for some time now, but the Americans were being inexplicably intransigent on the matter.

And thus, Mycroft sat at his desk in his private and secluded office, in a part of Whitehall a scarce stone's-throw from the room that now filled his screen. At his disposal were a collection of optional camera-views, each remotely-operable and unlike the ones at the restaurant of the previous evening; these were fully equipped with high-resolution video _and_ audio. The small red light in the top right corner of the screen told him his request for real-time recording was in train; whether he watched this or not, a video-file would be waiting for him at the end of the day.

Selecting the camera embedded in the large central monitor on the farthest wall of the room, Mycroft was immediately presented with a perfectly clear view of the entire conference space. Sir Anthony, on the right side of the screen was addressing the seated group to the left of the picture in front of him. Behind Kell, each monitor was displaying an aerial shot of a different Capital city; it was clear that the proceedings had only recently begun.

Turning his examination to Kell's audience, Mycroft was pleased to see everyone was present and accounted for, including, he noticed, Paul Chen Bai Wu. So, the man's arrival at the dinner the previous evening _hadn't_ been mere coincidence; someone in GCHQ had clearly gotten wind of this gathering and managed to persuade Kell to act on Wu's inclusion.

Frowning slightly, Mycroft made a mental note to speak to Sir Anthony regarding a mutual definition of the term 'select group'. Paul Wu's presence added an unknown quantity into the mix, a very carefully _arranged_ mix, and Mycroft rarely trusted the unknown. But still, the damage was done now; any attempt to strong-arm Wu out of the group would create more waves than leaving him be.

Sipping his tea, Mycroft watched as Sir Anthony finished his speech and used the controls on his laptop to zoom in on each of the faces in the group.

David Abrams was closest to the camera, his classically-handsome features stilled and attentive. That the man was good-looking and available had been key to his participation in this event. The same could be said for Harrison Carter, though the older man might well be off relationships for life, considering the fallout from his most recent debacle of a divorce. Zita Loretto was still something of a dark horse, but this was only the first day.

And then of course, there was Anthony Kell himself. Tall, dark-haired with a touch of grey at the temples. Of military stock, the man held himself well, with quiet dignity and understated authority. His wife had died several year earlier of an undiagnosed heart condition. Sir Anthony hadn't put himself back on the market for a new companion, but then, Mycroft acknowledged, neither had he stayed away.

Two _Alphas_, two _Betas_ and an _Omega_, all in the same room for the same reason, though not, perhaps, the reason they assumed. Mycroft turned his focus at last to the cause for his observation.

Grace Chandler sat in the centre of the group, with Loretto on one side and Carter on the other. Already there was sufficient rapport so that the space between their individual positions was minimal and their body-language increasingly informal.

_Omega ..._

Today she wore grey, a business-like exterior that mirrored her professionalism.

His abdomen tensed as he observed her, zooming the camera-focus in until he could see the slight curve at the corner of her mouth, and the shadow of her eyelashes as she blinked.

Closing his eyes and sighing, Mycroft realised he should not be doing this, that it was in fact, a gross violation of Grace's privacy.

_But she would never know_.

Such close observation was perilously close to stalking.

_Yet it was for her own good ..._

He should leave this now and let them be ... let _her_ be.

_Just a moment more, a moment ..._

As if she had sensed his inner dilemma, Grace chose that instant to look around the room, her eyes pausing on the tiny red light above the centre monitor on the far wall. None of the others had a red light. Odd.

At the present level of zoom, Grace's eyes, calm and clear, seemed to be staring right into his own and in that second, Mycroft acknowledged himself a lost cause as his chest seized and his stomach swooped.

If he could have reached across into that room and brought her to him in that moment, nothing would have been able to prevent such an action.

Grace blinked slowly and returned her attention to the front of the room.

Mycroft exhaled long and low, willing his heartbeat into a slower cadence. Closing the portal, he sat back in his chair, a hand briefly pressed to his eyes.

All he could do now was hope.

###

"They're not interested, Sherlock, just as I said they wouldn't," Lestrade sighed as he held his phone to his ear. After last night's little chat, he had promised to phone in the younger Holmes' considered opinion in regards to the Holland Park burglary, though he was pretty sure nobody would want to have much to do with it.

"If nothing was taken and nobody got hurt and if even the alleged _victims_ don't want to make it into a police matter," Greg reasoned, "then I'll be amazed if anyone down the Yard will give the idea the time of day," he said. "There's just too much other stuff to do, and a burglary that wasn't really a burglary is way down the list of things that need sorting."

There was an angry flurry of words from the other end of the conversation.

"Getting your knickers in a twist won't make any difference, either," Greg couldn't help but grin a little. It wasn't often he had the upper hand in anything to do with a Holmes.

There was a pause in the diatribe from the other end which had Lestrade on immediate alert. The only time Sherlock was ever quiet was when he was thinking hard, and any hard-thinking usually meant trouble.

"And anyway, I'm on holiday," he announced loudly and categorically, hoping to pre-empt any potential involvement. He'd only just got _home_, for Christ's sake. The last thing he wanted to do was get sucked into one of Sherlock's shenanigans. "I need to do a year's worth of laundry and buy a new plant," he added, making his case even more concrete.

The soft words began again, slower this time, more contrived, more compelling.

Greg groaned under his breath as he realised Sherlock's reasoning was actually starting to make sense. _No_, he didn't want to have to review the cases of two dead people when he had had the chance to stop them from being dead. _No_, the effort involved in this investigation wouldn't be massive and all-consuming, _but, but_ ... no, laundry and plant-buying wasn't really _that_ busy.

Standing in his socks in his kitchen, mug of tea in one hand, phone in the other; the sound of his washing machine whirring away in the background, Greg gave up any pretence of resistance. Screwing his eyes closed, he groaned for real. "Okay then, you pushy sod," he muttered. "Tell me what you want."

There was more murmuring

"A passport check for who? And which hotels? Hang on a minute," Greg put his mug down. "Just getting a pen ... okay, fire away."

###

The man known to his subordinates as _Mr Roberts_ took one final look around the cottage before he left. This was the last time he'd be alone here, and he had wanted to be absolutely sure, one last time, that everything was in place and as it should be. Crossing the uneven stone floor to the window in the whitewashed wall of the main room, he noted the bars were in place as strongly in here as they were in all the other windows, not that there were a lot of them in such a pocket-sized cottage; there were only four rooms in total.

The kitchen area, small enough, but utilitarian. There was sufficient space to hold a bit of a table and a few mismatched wooden chairs; the cracked stone sink was serviced by an ancient hand-pump and an equally ancient, corrugated iron water-tank outside. There were no mains utilities to such an isolated hut; the previous inhabitant had made do with a propane gas stove and storm-lanterns at night, of which six shiny new examples stood on the table, ready for use. The few cupboards were packed with boxes of dried food, needing only hot water to render them consumable. There were also boxes of soft drinks, mineral water, tea, and the best instant coffee money could buy. Everything else was disposable. Nothing would be left behind afterwards. There was a tiny fireplace, but his men had checked its functionality, and there was now a small stack of wood under an old army tarp outside, as well as a brand new propane tank of some considerable size, huddled beneath the eaves of the low roof.

The bathroom; barely large enough for a man to stand upright, barely able to be called a bathroom, come to that. No sink, only a wide china bowl standing on top of a small chest of drawers underneath a rusty mirror which hung from a large nail banged haphazardly into the crumbling stonework. There was a working toilet, he'd made sure of that. It used rainwater from a separate tank which he'd had installed and filled from the trickle of a stream outside. An old bentwood chair stood in one corner, heaped with folded towels. There was a timeworn zinc bath leaning up against one wall, though he'd seen better specimens in gardens, filled with geraniums. Still, none of them were going to be here long enough to worry about needing such ablutions. There was a tiny square window in here too. He checked the bars.

Back through the kitchen, he walked into what had probably been a storeroom when this place was used on a regular basis; there was evidence of cupboards having been on the walls. The room had been stripped now, cleaned and draft proofed. Two narrow camp beds hugged the long sides of the room, with almost no space for anything else. The window in here was higher than the others, but it too was heavily barred.

Across the tiny passage was the final and largest room. It had obviously been the previous occupant's bedroom and held a small double bed, a wobbly bedside table and a diminutive chest of drawers. There were a number of large iron hooks fixed to the walls, clearly there for the hanging of heavy garments. The single window in here was as secure as all the others. The only difference between this room and the others, was the door. It was new and solid and featured a very strong bolt and lock _on the outside_. There was also a small sliding panel at eye-height. This was not the usual kind of door for a bedroom.

Nodding, knowing everything was in place, Mr Roberts stepped out the cottage's one and only door, locking it firmly behind him and pocketing the solid iron key. He scanned the nearby fields and horizon for any sign of movement or human existence. There was none; nothing to see for miles, except green fields, several copses of dark woods and the small stream gurgling downhill into the valley below. The only living things anywhere near this place had four legs, and last he heard, sheep were not noted for their curiosity.

Heading back along the track to his army surplus Land Rover, he took one final glance at the building as it hugged the hillside upon which it was built. Everything about it blended into the scenery. None of the small changes he's made could be seen, and the only sign of increased activity was the slight muddiness of the track from the vehicles which had come and gone under cover of darkness. The place was silent and peaceful and utterly forgotten.

Exactly as it was supposed to be.

Firing up the Land Rover, Roberts reversed slowly back down the narrow trail. The next time he came here, he would have a very important guest.

###

Now that The Plan was well underway, Mycroft reviewed everything that had transpired thus far, ready to amend his overall strategy if change was merited. So far, nothing had pushed beyond his critical parameters, and so he felt able to continue in this contingency. Everything was in place; all the players were settling into their roles.

And now it was his turn. His turn to do something he'd never attempted to do before in his life.

He was about to woo Grace Chandler.

He had read a great deal recently about the act of wooing. He understood the mechanics and the purpose of the procedure, even to the point of critiquing some of the mooted approaches suggested by several of the texts with which he had familiarised himself. Though he had never formally courted a woman before, surely it couldn't be that difficult? The primary objective was clear enough; to make oneself a thing of desire in the eyes of the person one wished to attract. Plus, he already knew that Grace was ... had been ... attracted to him, although that _had_ been two years before. That he had then knowingly cast her aside and had nothing to do with her for almost the whole of that time was neither here nor there. That she felt little for him now save detestation and general repugnance, was of no import. There had once been a flame of great attraction between them; all he had to do was rekindle it.

The only problem was he had no clue where to begin.

Almost all of the strategies in the books called for a meeting of some kind, something informal and low-key, where they might begin to rediscover their connection.

But what? And where? What form of meeting could he possibly contrive by which they could be alone together and during which time, Grace would feel compelled to listen to what he had to say?

_But of course_. A faint smile softened the hard line of his mouth. It was morally and ethically wrong; it was blatantly manipulative and nothing short of Machiavellian.

Therefore, he would begin this evening.

###

It was well after lunchtime when Grace's stomach advised her she had missed something relatively important.

After the initial shock of Sir Anthony's little speech that morning, combined with the slightly unnerving awareness that they had all, consciously or not, fallen down the same rabbit-hole, the hours Between their morning coffee and the early afternoon had vanished like dawn mist. Only as she raised her head to look about her for the first time in ages, did Grace realise the absolute silence in the room. Blinking a little as if she had just walked into the light, she let her gaze drift from one to the next of her temporary colleagues. Without exception, each of them was deeply engrossed in their laptops computers just as she had been, jotting down notes on the copious writing pads made available for precisely such a purpose. By the frowns of concentration, none of them were likely to be stopping anytime soon.

Her stomach rumbled quietly but with somewhat greater urgency.

Realising there was nothing for it but to feed the beast, Grace stretched her back until a series of satisfying clicks suggested it was as elongated as it would go. Standing, she made her way over to the refreshment table, noting that someone had come in and left platters of fresh sandwiches and fruit. Nothing but the best on the public purse. Helping herself to an avocado and chicken roll and a cup of the freshly-made tea, she leaned back against the nearest wall and wondered who was missing. It took only a moment to see that Sir Anthony was not in the room; he must have slipped out at some point while everyone else was too deep in thought to notice.

Chewing solidly, Grace recapped the progress she'd made so far in her research into paperless archives. They were becoming increasingly viable, given the advanced nature of space-age materials and digitised metadata. She had smiled broadly upon reading on the recent developments at Oxford where they were experimenting with the properties of transparent aluminium. The only other place she heard about that had been in a _Star Trek_ film years before, but apparently, it was now a real thing.

It might be possible, given the increasingly enormous powers of lasers and solid-state storage facilities to create a physical digitised home using NAND flash memory, incorporating massive amounts of digitised archival data onto tiny solid-state drives. The latest, military-grade facilities she was able to locate was one where up to an _exabyte_ of data might, theoretically, be stored on something the size of a large refrigerator. This would conceivably take care of the huge space required for future archival storage. It would be unbelievably expensive, but if it served a military purpose as well as that of the national and international security organisations, then it was feasible.

Grace wasn't too bothered about the older archived materials; the handwritten letters of Mata Hari; the Enigma codes and the invasion plans for the Normandy beaches were now declassified and considered historical artefacts and preserved as such in museum-style exhibits. No, it wasn't the _old_ stuff that they would need to record, store and curate, but the tsunami of electronic bits and bytes that were flooding through the world at a terrifying rate; the quicker these materials could be caught, tamed, decoded and stored, the quicker their contents might be of use in the ongoing fight against those who preferred a world at war rather than at peace.

Which was exactly why paper had to go.

Grace bit into her bread roll with some determination.

Harrison Carter stood slowly from his chair, easing himself into a vertical stance and making a pained face. Clearly, his back didn't like sitting down for so long any more than hers did. Strolling over, his waggled his eyebrows at her expression, smiling and she looked a little rueful.

"Feels good to get the brain going fast every once in a while, doesn't it?" he spoke softly so as not to disturb those who were still working. "Kills the back, however."

Sipping her tea, Grace nodded slowly. "It's good to know one's brain is still up for it," she tilted her head. "It's so easy to get sucked down into everyday departmental minutia and forget the real reason we wanted to do this job in the first place."

Carter nodded sympathetically. He really did understand. It was the reason he stayed working for the government when he could be making a great deal more money in the private sector, showing the mega-multinationals how to store and use their data much more efficiently and productively. _Ah well_. Maybe one day.

"So, how are you getting on?" Grace was curious. Designing something that could access any kind of archival database, secure or otherwise, was a massive thing to take on; she wasn't sure if it could actually be done with their current state of technology.

"It's slow work, but you'd be amazed at some of the things I've been able to find out through the sources available to us in here," he smiled wickedly. "I know a few captains of industry who might literally kill to get their hands on some of this information."

Grace grinned back. "I know what you mean," she nodded. "I've dug up some really eye-opening things since we started," she paused. "Things that could make my idea a plausible reality."

"That's brilliant, Grace," the American flashed his brilliantly white teeth in a sudden smile. "What are you doing for dinner tonight?" he asked, looking at the blonde assessingly. "We have to eat, right?"

"We have to eat," she smiled, cheered by his infectious good humour. "But I also have a real job to keep an eye on and I need to go back to my office tonight to check everything's going to function as I expect it to for the next few weeks," she shrugged. "But there's always _tomorrow_ night."

"There sure is," Carter's smile grew conspiratorial and his voice dropped lower. "Did you like the flowers?"

Grace wasn't sure about the feeling that suddenly shot through her.

"The flowers are from you?" she asked slowly. "You sent me the roses?"

Harrison Carter closed one eye and screwed up his face. He grinned lopsidedly.

Not quite knowing what to say, Grace said nothing, though inside, she couldn't help feeling the faintest trickle of something that might have been regret. _Why regret,_ was her immediate thought. They had to have come from someone in this room, so why _regret_ if it had been Harrison Carter? Would she have preferred them to have been from someone else? If so, then who?

"They are beautiful flowers Harrison, thank you, but you barely know me," she said, a look of doubt in her eyes.

"Then perhaps we need to remedy that lack?" his fair eyebrows lifted in query.

"Perhaps," Grace turned back to her desk. "But not just yet," she tipped her head towards her laptop. "Duty calls."

"It does indeed," Harrison finished off his coffee and winked at her before making his way back to his own desk, flexing his fingers in preparation for a return to the fray.

_Harrison Carter had sent her roses?_ Grace focused her concentration back down to the screen of her computer. They were lovely blooms and a generous gift, but all she could think of was _why him?_

The remainder of the day passed as swiftly as the first half , though there was no indication of time in the windowless room.

Stretching her back again, Grace checked her watch to see that it was already after five. If she was going to have a chance to pop back into her office before it got too late, she really needed to go now. Rolling her shoulders and neck, she stood, a little stiffly.

"I have to fly," she announced to both Paul and David as they too sat back and stretched. "I have to get to the office for a little while before dark. I'll see everyone in the morning?" she said, waving at Zita and Harrison while collecting her Ultrabook and briefcase, as well as the bouquet of roses. She headed out the door she had entered uncounted hours before.

Making it all the way back down to the main security desk, she had to go through the same security check in reverse. They were certainly thorough here in the MoD.

Heading out through the long entryway and finally out into the street at the approach of early evening, Grace inhaled the cooling fresh air and felt very good. The practicum was already off to a wonderful start with an almost physical exhilaration flowing through her and she wondered how she had ever let that feeling slip away. Really, Grace thought, she needed to do this sort of thing far more often; the excitement of the day had been a tangible thing.

But now to grab a cab for a five-minute drive down to Millbank where she could call in and check with her new team just to make absolutely sure they were fine, before she went to grab some dinner and then back home to work on her project research.

Scanning the road ahead for the familiar rounded shape of a London cab, she hadn't gone more than ten feet along the kerb when the soft purr of a perfectly-maintained, high-end car engine sounded right behind her. Turning her head automatically, she caught sight of the sleekly black Jaguar.

There was only one person she knew who drove around in a car like that and she wasn't sure if the prickling of her skin in that moment of recognition was one of irritation, nostalgia or a _frisson_ of expectation.

The nearside rear door opened, apparently of its own accord.

Grace knew she could ignore the invitation; she could continue hunting for a cab, although there were none yet in sight nor, she realised, had any gone past in the few minutes since she'd been standing on the pavement. That in itself was a little odd, especially at this time of the working day in inner London. Odd indeed.

She could make a run for it straight down Abingdon Street; though it was only about a mile in distance to her office in the MI5 building in Millbank, with her bags and with the current volume of pedestrian traffic, it would take her at least twenty minutes or more, and it was already getting late; her team would be thinking of leaving very shortly, if they hadn't already gone home.

_Or she could get in the bloody car_.

There was a polite cough from inside the parked vehicle.

Muttering beneath her breath, she stepped towards the open door and slid inside. "I need to get to my office and catch my team before they vanish for the night," she said, _apropos_ of a greeting.

"I think you'll find they may have already left for the day," Mycroft's voice was quiet but possessed of an uncanny assurance. Grace knew there was little point arguing with that particular tenor of voice. How on earth did he know what her archive team was doing? Was MI5 still keeping an eye out for her? Was Gerald Palmer involved in this?

"And therefore, there's no need for me to hurry off and thus I'll have time to sit here, in the back of your posh car and be a captive audience?" she asked, although her words were more a resigned statement of fact rather than an irritated question.

Mycroft smiled diplomatically. "So glad we're not going to waste time arguing over unessentials," he tapped the glass dividing screen. "There are things you need to know about this secondment you've begun," he said as the car pulled away from the kerb. "Things that should be discussed in private."

"What about my secondment?" Grace frowned as she rested the roses on her lap and stopped thinking about feeling annoyed.

"Flowers?" his tone was curious.

"Yes," she smiled as she looked at them once again; their perfume already heavy in the warmth of the car. "They're perfectly lovely, aren't they?" she added, smiling down as she rested a head of velvet petals in her hand, inhaling their sweetness. "Harrison Carter gave them to me."

Mycroft went still, his eyes narrowing slightly. "How do you know Professor Carter is responsible for them?"

"He told me this afternoon," Grace was still smiling as she brought the bouquet up to her face, allowing her to inhale the perfume again.

"_Did_ he now?"

"He also asked me out to dinner tonight but I said I had work to do back in my _own_ _office_," Grace lifted her head and turned to meet a pair of dark blue eyes which at that moment were wide and unquestionably clear of duplicity.

"I need to talk to you about the work you're doing, and about the others' work, too," Mycroft ignored her quasi-complaint. "Are you hungry?" he checked the archaic fob watch that always lived in his waistcoat. "We could have an early dinner."

It had been a long time since her scanty lunch, though she had planned on grabbing a pizza or something on the way home.

"Not really hungry, thank you," she was not about to give him _any_ reason to prolong this meeting, no matter how critical he might make things sound.

Her stomach decided to disagree and counter-argued with a soft growl.

"I see." He didn't need to look at her; she heard the amusement in his voice. Grace wouldn't swear it, but she was pretty sure he was laughing at her.

The tip of his umbrella tapped the glass screen three times in quick succession. "There's little point in you going hungry while we speak," Mycroft leaned back in his seat as the Jaguar took off up Cockspur Street towards Piccadilly.

"Where are we going?" Grace looked about her, puzzled. "I really do have work I need to do this evening."

"There will be ample time for you to continue your work against global deforestation, later."

This gave her pause. Grace knew she hadn't told anyone the nature of her personal project before this morning. Looking thoughtful, she frowned, but said nothing. How he had discovered _that_ little piece of information needed thinking about.

"Really, Grace." She could feel his eyes resting on her. "Do you honestly believe anything of genuine importance is secret anymore?"

About to make an angry retort about personal privacy and the notion of outrageous interference, when the car slowed to a halt outside The Wolseley.

"We're stopping here?"

"Even if you decide you're still not hungry," Mycroft had walked around the rear of the Jaguar and now held her door open as she climbed out. "I occasionally like to eat here."

Finding herself walking through the opened door of the restaurant, rather more of a _Grande Café_ than anything more formal, the sudden aroma of delicious food had her stomach sitting up and taking a definite interest.

Escorting her inside, Mycroft indicated a discreetly located and unoccupied table at the far end of the main dining area. There was an empty table either side of it; all three bore small signs which stated they were _reserved_.

"Isn't this already booked?" Grace nodded the small white card on the central table.

"Indeed it is," he smiled briefly, sliding into a very comfortable-looking chair, indicating the empty place beside him.

Sighing at the inexplicable though predictable omniscience, Grace sat herself down in the allocated seat and rested her head in her hands. Not only had he known she would get in the car, but also that she would accompany him to a restaurant. Black magic was clearly involved. "Why do you always do this to me?" she sounded weary.

From the second Grace had entered the Jaguar, Mycroft had been aware of a low-level but increasing tension building inside him. He had been determined not to permit any physical over-reaction _this_ time, but sitting this close, so aware of the heat of her body and the subtle fragrance of her perfume, his pulse was already prepared to go it alone, regardless of any decision made by his higher reasoning.

It was increasingly difficult for him not to stare, not to touch. His imagination flung creative scenarios into the theatre of his mind. _Grace, smiling at him, leaning closer. Grace pressing her palm to his chest, narrowing the distance between them. Grace, naked and …_

"Because I need someone I can trust, and you are one of the most trustworthy people I know," Mycroft was rather pleased his voice remained level for the entire sentence.

She closed her eyes and leaned back, not ever trying to mute the soft groan that rumbled in her throat. "Am I going to be involved in something else that's horrible and has to do with bad people?" she asked plaintively.

A waiter arrived, clad in the restaurant's standard livery.

"I'll have the dressed Cornish crab and the veal chops, thank you," Mycroft hadn't even looked at the menu.

Grace refused to be bulldozed into choosing anything, although the longer she thought about food, the more the demands of her innards were making themselves heard. She gave in.

"I'd like a small Salade Niçoise and the seared Mackerel, please," she smiled up into the young man's face. "And some bread rolls while I wait."

"And a bottle of the 2013 Château de Pibarnon Bandol Rosé, if you will," Mycroft nodded, satisfied. At least sitting together having a meal in a civilised manner was a step up from the armed neutrality of their most recent encounter.

As soon as the waiter headed off to do their bidding, Grace took a deep breath and turned to look her dinner-companion straight in the eye. "Every single time we have ever eaten a meal together, you have always had an underlying reason," she said, not blinking once. "What is it this time?"

As the full effect of her clear grey gaze hit home, Mycroft felt a brief wave of light-headedness wash over him. Her presence was like a drug; some ethereal narcotic that floated through his veins. For a moment, he felt fractionally lighter than gravity.

"I want to know what Paul Chen Bai Wu is doing in that practicum," he managed, looking away for a second both to pour two glasses of iced water and to refocus his thinking.

"Paul?" Grace frowned severely. "What on earth's wrong with Paul Wu? He's a lovely man."

"He's in a very senior position at GCHQ," Mycroft sipped the cooling liquid with some relief and looked thoughtful. "He's not meant to be in your group though he somehow managed to wangle his way in. I want to know why."

"Are you telling me that Paul Wu is up to no good?" Grace could hardly believe it. "But … he's so _nice_."

The waiter arrived with their entrees and bread rolls, but departed swiftly.

"He's not quite as harmless as he might seem," Mycroft tried a forkful of the crab and savoured the moment. It truly was a superb dish.

"You'll have to substantiate that statement," Grace stabbed a piece of tuna. "Or I won't believe you."

Pausing again as the wine waiter arrived and poured them both a glass of the rosé, Mycroft raised his eyes to hers once more and couldn't help but find the resolute stare of determined resistance to be entirely seductive _… she might reach across the table to brush fingertips down his face … and take his face between her hands … lean in for a kiss that …_

"Paul Chen Bai Wu is legally a British citizen who works in a very high-level position in one of the most secure organisations we have in this country," he said, pulling out his phone and selecting a photograph. "Yet two weeks ago, he was seen emerging from the Chinese embassy in Portland Place in the middle of the night."

Taking the phone, still warm from the heat of his hand, Grace knew Mycroft was telling the truth, whether she wanted to believe him or not. No matter how bloody-minded he was, he wasn't lying; he didn't need to lie. The image of Paul Wu walking out of the dimly-lit gate of the embassy was perfectly clear.

"It might have something to do with his mother?" she asked, handing the phone back. "Apparently, she's a bit obsessive about things to do with Chinese traditions."

"At three in the morning?" Mycroft shook his head. "No, Grace; there's something else going on here and I'd like you to … keep an eye on him during your time together at the MoD, if you wouldn't mind."

"And what if I _did_ mind?"

Mycroft turned to meet her gaze again, though this time it was slightly resentful and obstructive. He said nothing, just held her eyes with his own, and waited. _Don't look away, Grace … don't tell me to go to hell … don't ever look away …_

Lifting her chin, she inhaled sharply "Is this really so important?"

"It is," he looked serious. "It's extremely important for you to keep me informed of anything he does that might be considered out of the ordinary."

"You want me to contact you on a regular basis?" Grace frowned once again, though she didn't actually feel that bad about what she was being asked to do. Whatever else he was, Mycroft Holmes was no fool. She lifted her eyes to meet his calm blue observation again and felt … _felt_ ... the _weirdest_ sensation in her chest, as if she were gliding or falling …

He nodded.

Her throat was strangely dry as she made to speak. Sipping some water, she tried again. "Then I'll do it," she agreed, carefully, looking at the man sitting next to her and wondering why she had felt so suddenly peculiar. Probably low blood-sugar.

As her eyes connected to his a second time, Mycroft felt something significant had just happened, without any idea of what it might have been. But she was still sitting beside him, still talking to him, still looking at him … _as her perfume sent him slightly giddy and the velvet of her skin demanded his touch … a fingertip of contact would do ..._

Steeling himself, he nodded again, more briskly. That she had agreed on regular contact, albeit not, perhaps, the type of contact he might prefer, was all he could hope for at this stage. To push any harder risked the overall outcome of The Plan.

The waiter returned with their main courses and poured them more wine.

"Then I have one more thing to ask," Mycroft looked pensive and spoke almost diffidently.

Grace thought it had all been too good to be true, and she had been right. She sighed gustily. "What now?"

The blue of his eyes glinting with good humour, the corner of his mouth curved upwards. "Would you like dessert?"

###

It was still relatively early when the Jaguar stopped outside her building in Barge House Street. Alighting from the car, Grace took pains to ensure she had all her baggage with her, and especially the roses. So careful was she in holding them close to her to avoid the slightest possibility of damage that she didn't catch the haunted expression on Mycroft's face.

Bidding each other a civilised good night, she made a fatigued run up the old staircase to the third floor, the perfume of the flowers saturating everything.

Though the building's interior lights had not yet turned one, the last of the daylight from the window at the far end of the passage separating her apartment from the one occupying the other half of the floor, was enough to show her that something was lying on the floor immediately in front of her door.

It was long and dark and unmoving.

Walking back to the emergency light switch at the top of the stairs, she hit the push-button hard, blinking as the bright overhead light illuminated everything with a harsh white glow.

There was a long black box lying on the carpet at the base of her front door. About a yard long and roughly ten inches wide and deep, it was bound with a wide red ribbon at the centre. A small, handwritten card was tucked underneath the bow.

_Thinking of you._

Opening her door and carrying everything through to the kitchen, Grace laid the box on a stone bench top and untied the ribbon, lifting the long lid away. Inside was another bouquet of dark red roses, their perfume instantly filling the air around her with a heavy, fragrant essence.

Studying the card directly beneath a bright kitchen light, Grace knew one thing for certain. The hand that wrote this card was not a man's.


	3. Chapter 3 Consolidation

**Consolidation**

_Another Vallenda – Three Caballeros – Sherlock Finds a Clue – No Deus Ex Machina – The Accidental Voyeur – Meet the Boss – Oxford by Night – A Time for Truths._

#

#

Even though it was early, it was the green smoke coming out of the upstairs window which first alerted Greg to the fact that all might not be well in the bosom of 221B Baker Street. Since there were as yet no actual flames issuing forth, nor cries for help, or even the distant echo of fire engines, it stood to reason that the dense and rather acrid dark-green fog blossoming into view was therefore a deliberate consequence, rather than an accidental accident. Sherlock was cooking something again, though probably not on the stove.

That Mrs Hudson was utterly furious with the upstairs flat was obvious in the way she glared at him when she answered the door.

"I swear, if Sherlock doesn't stop trying to poison me in my sleep, I will have some _very_ _strong_ words with that young man," she muttered, stamping away and letting Lestrade sort himself out.

The upstairs door was flung open even before he'd had a chance to knock.

"_Ah_, thank God, Lestrade!" Sherlock was wearing his robe over what had been a white shirt and black trousers. Now however, his ensemble smacked more of the peat bogs of Galway, with glistening streaks of brown and green sludge forming wide diagonal bars across his body.

And the _smell_...

"Jesus wept," Greg covered his nose and mouth with a hand as he stepped inside the flat. There was a lot of haze still in the main room. "What the bloody hell have you been _doing_ in here?"

The younger Holmes dragged the bandana away from his nose and lifted a pair of skiing goggles up onto his forehead. Pulling himself up into a dignified pose, as far as anyone could look dignified, coated in stinking muck, he gave Lestrade a half-lidded stare.

"A comparative experiment analysing both the qualitative and quantitative differences between organic decay internal and external to the public waste system," he announced, sounding noble and somewhat hard done by.

Decrypting the sentence, Greg arrived at an understanding he hoped was incorrect. "You're measuring the rate of decay of things inside the sewerage system?" he asked uncertainly. "What things?"

"Various organics," Sherlock muttered, after a pause. "Different materials one might find decaying in such a location."

Looking around for John, Lestrade was met with a rigid barrier of an opened broadsheet newspaper, its sheets stretched taut to the point of tearing. The hands holding the two opposing edges of the paper were white-knuckled and unnaturally still. John had clearly made a strategic withdrawal behind the Telegraph and was determined to stay there until he calmed down.

_Ah_.

"Well, don't come running to me if a Hazmat team come and close this place down as a health-hazard," he walked over to the window and pushed the upper sash window higher, breathing deeply as he did. "You can smell this reek out in the _street_, Sherlock, and Mrs Hudson's convinced you're trying to bump her off in her sleep."

"Yes, well, some experiments do, upon occasion, have unsought side-effects," the tall man had the grace to look fractionally sheepish. "Though Mrs Hudson is being overly melodramatic, as usual."

The sound of a newspaper page being violently turned echoed through the flat and was accompanied by faint, though somewhat intent, muttering.

Time to pour some oil on troubled water, perhaps.

Lestrade paused, looking between the unspeakably befouled Holmes and the unspeaking Watson. "I checked those passports, like you asked," he said, wondering if such information might be enough to establish a new détente in the flat. "Something interesting came up that you might want to know about."

"Oh?" Sherlock walked into the kitchen, washed his hands and filled the kettle. "Define interesting."

"Looks like your idea of the Holland Park burglar being from outside London might actually hold some water," he said, casually.

"All my ideas hold water, Inspector," Sherlock rinsed out the teapot with hot water before adding a couple of teabags. "But do feel free to insult my intelligence at your leisure," he added, pouring the boiling water into the pot before locating three relatively clean mugs.

"You asked me to see if anyone by the name of Vallenda had come through any of the London airports in the last month, and if so, to check out the airport hotels for a guest of the same name," Greg pulled out a small notebook. "Jaysan Vallenda, thirty-two, passport number you don't need to know ... arrived Gatwick from Frankfurt three weeks ago, currently listed as staying at the Travelodge Motel on the airport grounds," he said.

"Then I need to speak with Mr Vallenda immediately!" Sherlock was already disrobing in preparation of changing his shirt for a cleaner model.

"No point rushing, Sherlock," Greg looked faintly smug. "I thought you'd want a word with the man, and sent a couple of uniforms out there to pick him up for questioning."

"And?" John emerged for the first time from behind his newsprint fortress. "What did he say?"

"He's already gone," Lestrade sighed and leaned back against the kitchen workbench as the kettle boiled, filling the teapot, as he was the nearest. "The uniforms spoke to the motel manager who said the man checked out the day before.

"Have they cleaned the room yet?" Sherlock accepted the mug of scalding hot tea. "I expect they have, which is a wretched nuisance."

"Actually, no," Greg grinned broadly. "They've had a bit of a staff shortage and it was to be cleaned this morning," he said, handing a second mug to John. "I told them to leave it be until we'd had it examined."

"Excellent!" Sherlock was already walking towards the bathroom to clean off before redressing. "We'll go in your car."

"I might have come in a squad car," Greg shouted down the hall after him.

"_You're on_ _leave_," Sherlock's returning shout was cut short by the slamming of the bathroom door.

"At least it'll get you out of this stench, eh?" Greg murmured as John threw the folded newspaper onto the floor.

"And stop me from wringing his neck," the blonde man closed his eyes and sighed loudly. "I don't know how he can stand it," he said.

"Probably doesn't even notice anymore," Lestrade commiserated. "Probably done permanent damage to his sense of smell by now."

"Not sure mine's all it used to be, either," John sipped his tea. "So," he said. "Another Vallenda in London. Bit of a coincidence."

"Nah," Greg shook his head. "As soon as Boy Wonder in there started muttering about acrobats and families, I knew it was more than coincidence when I saw the name. It was the reason I sent the uniforms."

"And they've really left the room untouched?" John was a little sceptical.

"I'm sure His Majesty will let us know if they haven't," Greg smiled brightly as Sherlock returned, buttoning up his cuffs and swinging into a dark jacket.

"Waiting for ..?" the younger Holmes looked between the two other men.

"Absolutely nothing, Sherlock," John sighed, grabbing his own jacket from the back of the door. "Nothing at all."

###

Grace yawned, even though she was already into her third coffee of the day. Opening another browser window on her laptop, she tried to pin down the very latest info-release on solid-state storage. She had spent half the night trying to find it and almost gave up, until she had spotted the single link to one specific company in California. Following her investigations of the previous day, she had narrowed down her field of research, but trying to access anything further from them was apparently impossible online. Until she found the link and made contact, she was in the process of arranging a secure online conference. She sighed. It was already starting to get very complicated. She yawned again. Making do with only four-hours sleep wasn't a good idea; she wasn't nineteen any more.

Despite her tiredness, Grace arrived early again at the conference room on the second floor, relieved at least, that there were no more roses waiting for her, or any other kind of flower, come to that. Her entire apartment was redolent with the perfume of the ones she'd received yesterday, although she was still puzzled over the identity of whoever might have sent the second bouquet. The card had been written in a woman's handwriting, but that might have been from the florist, of course. She had looked diligently, but there was no florist's sticker on the wrapping of that one either. It was all very peculiar. Almost as if someone didn't want her knowing where the flowers came from.

But if that were the case, then why had Harrison Carter claimed responsibility for the first bunch? Grace paused in thought. _Was it possible_, she wondered, that she might be receiving flowers _from_ _two different people?_

That would be simply too unthinkable. Getting such a provocative gift in the first place was cause enough for concern and wonderment; but _two?_ On the _same_ day?

Hopefully, however, there would be no more, or at least, no more until she was sure she knew where they were coming from. If it was Harrison, he'd probably say something about the second bunch delivered at her apartment yesterday evening ... although ... how would even someone like Harrison find out where she lived? It wouldn't be impossible to do, but Grace was not in the phone book and had deliberately kept her online footprint to a minimal state. She would not be the easiest person to trace or locate.

It was all very confusing.

Shaking her head to clear it of time-wasting meanderings, Grace opened up yet another chain of research while she was waiting to hear back from California, and promptly lost track of time again.

And again, it was her stomach that alerted her to the possibility she might have missed something. Leaving fifteen different windows open on her powerful little laptop, one of which included a paused real-time conversation with a technical manager in Silicon Valley, Grace headed over to the table up against the far wall, spread once more with a variety of cold foods and fruit. This time, however, there was the rather significant addition of a rich and darkly tantalisingly chocolate cake.

Though she was fairly disciplined with herself when it came to alcohol and junk foods, if there was one weakness that slithered around in the quiet depths of her soul, it was the absolute adoration of dark chocolate cake. And this one looked outrageously luscious. Even the slightly scorched aroma of the ultra-black chocolate coating beckoned to her as she moved closer to inspect it. There hadn't been a cake here yesterday, and certainly nothing as decadent as this.

While she was debating with her inner puritan, a flick of white caught her eye and Grace thought she _saw_ ... leaning closer ... she lifted the small white card tucked beneath the plate and brought it into clearer sight.

_Thinking of you_. It was in the same handwriting as the one of last night with the flowers.

Her skin prickled in something like mild shock. Was this all a huge joke? Were her new colleagues doing this as some sort of teasing initiation?

Well, that cleared up the question of whether a florist had written the card. Obviously, the answer was _no_. Whoever was doing this was writing their own cards. But what woman who knew of her weakness for chocolate cake also knew she was here? It couldn't be explained away as a coincidence because the identical card with roses last night made it very clear this was for her; there was no coincidence. Was it Harrison again, playing tricks on her? Was it David Abrams? It seemed like something he'd do.

Tapping the edge of the card against the tip of her chin, Grace knew for sure that something was up. Someone was playing a trick on her; had to be. Nobody she knew would send her first exotic roses and now her favourite _gateaux_. Especially not a woman. There wasn't any female in her life who knew she'd be here, in any case ...

Zita Loretto looked up from her laptop at that moment and smiled, waving her fingers briefly, before dropping her gaze back down to the computer screen.

_Zita?_

Grace had heard certain rumours about the American, but nobody at Zita's level of seniority or common-sense would be so unprofessional as to make such an obvious play for a new colleague ... _would she?_ Grace realised she knew almost nothing about her counterpart from the FBI. Perhaps she had better make sure, before anything was said that might be misconstrued.

But first ... the cake. Cutting two pieces and putting them onto separate plates with forks, she walked across to where the FBI expert was sitting and took an empty chair next to her, pushing one of the plates towards her.

"I think you need to try this cake," Grace couldn't think of a more direct method of opening the conversation. "Someone left it for me."

The look of slowly-dawning intrigue that filled Loretto's face was either a masterpiece of acting, or Zita really hadn't known about the cake.

"How do you know?" she asked, tasting the cake. She closed her eyes in delight.

"They left me this," Grace handed over the card. "There were more flowers waiting for me when I got home last night. There was an identical card with them. Identical to _this_," she added, tapping the small white rectangle with a fingertip.

"Then it has to be someone in this room," Zita sat back in her chair, her dark eyes fixed on Grace's. "Someone who's either been doing their homework on you, or who's a very lucky guesser."

"The handwriting on the cards," Grace held the American's gaze. "Is that of a woman."

"Yes, and?" Zita took another bite of the cake.

At Grace's silence, Loretto stopped chewing and narrowed her eyes. "You think it's _me?_"

Sitting back in her seat, Grace smiled. "It passed through my mind that there I might be the subject of a little hazing."

Saying nothing, but reaching over to lift up a fat pad of paper, Zita turned the top page towards the blonde's eyes. "This is my handwriting," the American picked up the cake fork and broke off another piece of divine wickedness.

Assessing the entire page of notes, and then flicking through several further pages underneath, Grace was forced to admit that the handwriting in front of her was nothing like that of the cards. Zita's writing was small and spiky. The words on the cards were more open, with a narrow loop to the lower part of the letters. The capital 'T' of _thinking_, was upwardly sloped and expansive, and even the letters were spaced apart differently.

Zita hadn't written the cards.

"Well, damn," Grace sighed, attacking her own piece of cake. "Now I'm back to square one and I have no idea who sent me either the flowers yesterday or this cake today. It's all a bit much."

"You think it might be one of the guys here?" Zita's voice was low.

"It has to be," Grace kept her own voice down. "Harrison claimed he sent the first lot of roses yesterday."

"Did he really?" Zita snorted with suppressed laughter.

"Well, not in so many words, but he intimated he did," Grace deliberately avoided looking at the CIA man.

"Then maybe he did," Zita licked the last bit of chocolate from her fork. "He's got great taste in women," she added, staring at Grace quite openly.

"And now I _know_ you're teasing," Grace laughed. "I'm not your type, am I?"

Zita wrinkled her nose. "Not really," she said. "I tend to go for tennis players, mostly."

"And I never date a work-colleague, so we're both safe, in that case," Grace smiled again. "But you have to admit that these cards and the roses and now the cake are all pretty strange."

"It might be Harrison, but I doubt it," Zita watched her compatriot surreptitiously as he stood to find himself some lunch. "It's not really his style."

"Then _who?_" Grace muttered. "It only leaves David and Paul, and I don't think Paul is quite that adventurous."

"He _did_ bring up the first bunch of flowers, yesterday," Zita looked thoughtful. "He only _said_ he had to sign for them. That might have been a lie. You know what they say about still waters running deep."

Grace frowned, but shook her head fractionally. "Yet if not Paul, then that only leaves David," she said, absolutely not looking in Abrams' direction. "But I'm not sure he'd be quite so subtle."

"Aren't you forgetting someone?" Zita sounded amused.

"Am I?" Grace sat back.

"The boss-man himself," Zita raised her eyebrows high and looked vaguely gloating. "Sir Anthony Kell," she added. "He has a known penchant for blondes, by the way; were you aware?"

"Anthony Kell?" Grace was dumbfounded. The image of a tall, well-groomed and well-dressed man, greying a little at the temples, floated through her mind's eye. That the Chief of MI6 might have even noticed her would be a surprise. That he might have undertaken such an elaborate scheme in order to endear himself to her was nothing short of absurd.

"It can't be Kell," Grace shook her head again. "The very idea is ridiculous."

"If you say so," Zita linked her fingers. "In which case, it's back to the three caballeros."

"I need another coffee, in that case," Grace stood. "And then you can tell me all about Paul Wu."

"Paul?" Zita sounded curious. "You think it might be him?"

Remembering her agreement with Mycroft of the previous evening, Grace shrugged a little. "Perhaps," she said. "I don't know him well enough to say one way or the other. Do you?"

It was Zita's turn to shrug. "I know a little," she offered.

"Then you can tell me everything after I get us both another piece of that immoral cake," Grace grinned down at a new friend.

###

"And there was nothing else, anywhere?" Sherlock looked down his nose at the Polish cleaner. "Absolutely sure?"

The woman shook her head; she was positive. The man who had stayed in this room had cleaned the place behind him before he left, she had told the three men who were asking her these questions. Never in all the years she'd been cleaning here was the room cleaner and tidier _after_ the guest had left than before he checked in. It was very strange, she announced with a growing sense of interest. It was almost as if the man had worn gloves and a hairnet the entire time he had been in the room! There were no hairs in the bathroom, or fingerprints on any shiny surface. There was something particularly strange going on here, she added, looking particularly helpful. If they told her what it was, she might be able to help them even more.

Eventually managing to chase the woman away, Greg looked a little peeved. That they had come all the way out here for nothing was a waste of his precious leave.

"Right then," he announced. "Are we done? Can I go back to actually being on holiday for five minutes?"

"One moment, Inspector," Sherlock looked out through the window of the room to the parking bay beyond. Stepping outside and onto the asphalted walkway, he crouched down, examining the damp lines in the parking space allocated to the room that had been taken by the mysterious German visitor. "Did the man hire a car by any chance?"

Consulting one of the uniformed constable's notebooks, Lestrade grunted an acknowledgement. "Yeah," he said. "He did. Light blue sedan ... something Japanese, the motel manager thinks, but can't swear it. Said the man checked out late yesterday but didn't say where he was going. Found something interesting?"

"Only this," Sherlock crouched down and pointed to the damp patch in the parking spot.

"It's a damp patch," Greg frowned. "There are damp patches all over the carpark."

"But not quite like this one, I think," Sherlock pulled out his phone and took a variety of photographs. "See the mud?" he pointed out the slightly raised material. "Shows a clear imprint of a newish radial tyre," he observed.

"And what's so interesting about a radial tyre?" John was also crouching down, his eyes following Sherlock's fingers. "Radials are common, these days."

"It's not the radial that's interesting, John," Sherlock looked up, a faintly wolfish expression across his features.

###

The Plan was beginning to move into the first of several time-critical phases now, with multiple, simultaneous activities requiring a sharp eye and a steady hand. Had there not been such important consequences riding on the outcome, Mycroft would have laughed at the amount of thought and energy he was putting into this; he handled far more complex and globally-pressing projects than this in his everyday phone-conversations. It was very different, he realised, when the stakes were not only critical but deeply personal.

Now that he had reinstituted a personal contact with Grace, the next step, according to all the books, was to increase, gradually, the level of familiarity between them. There were a variety of methods he had considered to achieve this goal, but they all seemed too artificial and contrived. Whatever else Grace was, she was not stupid and would spot a _deus ex machina_ from a mile off. Therefore, he would need to call upon sly cunning and supreme personal ingenuity. He smiled to himself; if he had a moustache, he would almost consider stroking it in an entirely Victorian fashion.

It was after five again when he called for the car, the smooth-running vehicle taking the same route it had taken the previous evening. "Wait here, please," Mycroft advised his driver, who managed to pull into almost the exact spot as he had the day before. It was a clearly-marked 'No Stopping' zone, with bright, double-red lines running the entire length of the road next to the government buildings. A number of pedestrians gave it dark looks as they walked by, and a uniformed police officer across the road spoke briefly into his shoulder-radio before receiving an equally brief response after which he walked calmly away. A large and imposing government Mercedes sounded its horn, a glaring face at the window as it passed.

The gleaming black Jaguar ignored them all and waited.

###

Her neck ached, her head ached, her throat was as dry as the Sahara and her fingertips were sore from all the keyboard work and typing she had done. Her back was stiff, her hips ached from all the sitting and Grace wanted nothing more than a long hot shower, a cold glass of wine and an early night. Closing her eyes, she breathed out slowly to relax her cramping muscles and pictured an evening of undisturbed, domestic peace and tranquillity.

However, even she had to admit that she had made some serious progress today. Not only had she discovered the manufacturing company in California responsible for the compact and miniaturised solid-state storage, but had managed two long virtual conferences between senior management staff to discuss availability and cost. The company were sending a whole bunch of technical specifications to her overnight, complete with cost-per-volume, as well as anything else the British government might want to know if they were seriously considering investing in their product. To make a big sale to a foreign government would set a grand seal on their product, and the Californian company was as enthusiastic as she was to prove that Grace had done the right thing in contacting them.

Remembering to phone her team during one of the brief breaks she had taken during the day, Grace was relieved, but not surprised to find that all was well back at Millbank. Her absence, apparently, was facilitating an outburst of new team bonding, which she took to mean her entire team were ordering in pizzas for lunch and generally letting things hang out while she was away.

She smiled. It was good for people to kick over the traces on occasion.

Sighing, Grace stood wearily, putting everything into a big pile on her desk and sliding the laptop into her briefcase. She was too tired tonight to start wondering about the flowers or the provenance of the cake. All she wanted was home and a shower and sleep. Her thoughts felt sluggish and heavy; her brain saturated with new data that needed time to bed down.

After bidding everyone a good night and descending to street-level, the last of the early summer sun made her blink with its brightness. It was too easy to forget the effect of real daylight when you spent the entire day in a room without windows.

Grace blinked again, but not, this time, because of the bright light. Smack in front of her, parked against every rule known to man or rule of law was a car she recognised as easily as she would recognise her own front door.

Sighing, she wasn't sure whether to be incensed and furious; weakly thankful that she wouldn't have to wait for a cab, or deeply suspicious and worried about what was going to happen next. Or possibly all three, in various combinations.

Not even bothering to wait this time for the rear door to open, Grace clutched her briefcase to her chest and tugged open the handle, sliding inside in the same movement, though her feet and hands didn't seem to know where to put themselves for a moment.

Once the heavy door closed itself, there was an oddly welcome sense of peace and tranquillity in the back of Mycroft's car; she had always known it, but tonight it was more than usually noticeable. Perhaps because she was so tired.

Blinking owlishly across at the tall man in the dark-grey suit, Grace shook her head at him. "Nothing to report," she said. "I talked extensively with Zita Loretto about Paul Wu, and there was honestly nothing she could tell me about the man that was in the least bit worrisome," she said, blinking a little more, as her eyelids seemed inconveniently heavy.

Even before she spoke, Mycroft saw that Grace was more than usually weary. The way she moved declared her entire body to be in discomfort, from the way she held her hands, palms-up, to the tension of her shoulders and the uncoordinated manner of her entry into the car. And though her complexion was usually very fair, she looked almost wan in the light of the ending day, her face pinched with semi-exhaustion and hunger.

Immediately, his plans were revised. He could not proceed to his next objective if she were in a state of near-collapse. It would not do.

"You've been pushing yourself too hard," he announced, purse-lipped and entirely displeased as he tapped the glass partition with a deft touch and the car took off in a different direction than the day before. "You're no good to me if you run yourself into the ground before you get the information I'm looking for."

Had she felt any less knackered than she did, Grace would have simply told him to piss off and opened the door to leave him to it; she felt wrung out enough after today, without having to put up with his nonsense as well.

But the car was already moving.

"Where are we going now?" she asked without heat or any real interest. Heat required energy, and hers had vanished into thin air around the time her second conference-call with the States had ended.

"To a place which will make you feel better, and where I can be sure that you will at least be fed and catered for, before you fall into a floundering heap," he examined her critically as he pulled his phone from an inner pocket. "Really," he murmured. "Have you no sense of self-preservation?"

_Yes, I do_. Grace pressed her lips together. _Staying away from you was part of that plan._

After murmuring a few sentences in a language Grace knew wasn't English, but couldn't work out what else it might have been, he ended the conversation as she leaned back against the supremely comfortable pale tan leather of the Jaguar's seat and closed her eyes, the soft burr of the engine lulling her almost to sleep in only a few moments.

It was the absence of movement that actually returned her to semi-alertness. Though it had only been a few minutes, Grace knew she had dozed a little, but had felt no benefit; her head still felt heavy and cumbersome as all the recent information sloshed around inside.

The car door beside her opened and Mycroft held out his hand. "Come with me."

Too exhausted to think of asking where they were or what was going to happen, Grace allowed his strong fingers to help her out of the car until she stood on her own feet, swaying fractionally. The sky was darkening towards real evening.

They were in a relatively narrow back alley between some old houses, not terribly tall buildings, but several floors high at least. There was the smell of greenery and trees, so she guessed they weren't in one of the more industrial areas of the City.

There was an old, solid door embedded in the nearest building at the top of a short flight of steps. Mycroft was already standing on the top step, knocking quietly. The door opened inwards to let a warm yellow light flood out from the inside. Standing to one side, he waved a hand towards Grace who stood awkwardly with a particularly dull expression on her face.

With a small sound of sympathy, a little Asian woman ran down the steps to take Grace's lower arm and hand, tugging her gently but persuasively up towards and through the door, shooting Mycroft a filthy look as she passed by. Without a backwards glance, he followed the two women inside, closing the door behind him.

Once inside, Grace was vaguely aware of a golden warmth everywhere; of carpeted passageways and muted coverings on the walls and doors she passed. There was the faintest sound of some stringed instrument playing away in the distance, and the occasional murmur of voices as doors opened and closed. The scent of something aromatic and spicy ... _incense?_ floated in the air, just on the edge of awareness.

The dainty woman who'd brought her inside turned the handle of the next door they came to and urged Grace through, following immediately after, but not before she'd turned and given Mycroft another severe glare.

He raised his eyebrows but said nothing, following behind in silence.

Grace was aware of being in a warm place with soft hands pulling her gently through several doorways. At some point, she had been brought into a room with semi-translucent white paper walls that seemed to slide from one side of the room to the other, creating a private partition behind which another small Asian woman joined the first.

Feeling the air around her grow moist and steamy as she was brought into yet another paper-partitioned room, Grace saw that it contained what looked like a round wooden bath filled with hot water and beside it, a simple stool.

Still uncertain what was expected of her, she was a little unnerved when two pairs of hands started removing her clothes, folding them neatly in a pile on a table at the rear of the room. Her shoes were taken away, her suit, her silk top, watch, earrings and finally, even her underwear. A little bemused, Grace stood, completely naked in the middle of what was obviously some sort of bathroom while two dark-haired women fussed around her.

Being pointed towards the low stool, Grace realised she was expected to sit, which she did, with a certain amount of muffled groaning as her muscles and back protested.

In the next instant, she stiffened as large scoops of hot water were ladled over her entire body by one of the women, while the other anointed her with a soapy cream, and with a large sea-sponge, worked a very thorough way down from the nape of her neck, her shoulders and back, around her front and down her legs. Even the skin between her fingers and toes received the same critical attention. Without the slightest concern for her modesty or safety, Grace simply sat on the stool and let the two women wash her body completely clean.

After a final ladle of hot water poured across her shoulders, her face was gently washed clean of what little makeup she was wearing, until her skin was soft and clear.

At this point, the women ushered her into the small round tub which was filled quite high with clear, steaming water. As soon as she stepped inside, Grace groaned softly in pleasure as the heat did wonderful things for her weary muscles. She sank deep into the water without another sound.

One of the women threw a double handful of rose petals onto the surface of the bath water; their old-world perfume immediately taking Grace back to her mother's back garden in the summer evening, where the fragrance of roses always seemed to linger even as the daylight faded. She closed her eyes and let the hot water and the scent of the petals take her tiredness far away.

Leaving her in peace for the moment, the older of the two women slid one of the paper partitions aside, closing it behind her as she crossed into the other half of the large and gently-lit room, which contained several luxurious sofas and wickedly comfortable chairs.

Mycroft was in one of them, his elbows resting on the arm of the chair, his fingers steepled in front of his face, fingertips barely touching his lips.

While it had not been his original intention to witness the shadow-play through the paper wall of the bathing room, he had been utterly transfixed by the silhouettes of the three women as Grace was stripped, bathed and tubbed. Since the walls were indeed paper-thin, they were unable to hinder even the smallest of sounds, and barely robust enough to prevent a clear view of anything behind them. The shadows he had watched, combined with Grace's quiet murmurs of pleasure and relief had been as earth-shatteringly arousing as anything he could recall in his life. He had sat, and watched, and wanted, and now his mouth was dry, his skin felt tight beneath his clothing, and he was not prepared to move from his current position until he had regained at least some control over his body's stirring response to such titillating voyeurism.

The older of the two woman stood before him, hands on her hips and a look of deep reproach on her face as she launched into voluble and idiomatic Japanese.

His eyes widening slightly as he realised he was being well and truly told off for making his staff work so hard, Miyu, several feet shorter than he, stood there and scolded him for his unreasonable behaviour. _How could he make that poor woman work until she was ready to drop? No wonder people thought he was a monster if he treated his staff like this. He should thank the heavens that she was still able to walk, the state she was in. He should be completely ashamed of himself!_

Unable to get a word in edgewise, Mycroft bowed his head to the vagaries of fate and allowed himself to be thoroughly chastised.

Finally running out of steam, Miyu Ishida, proprietor of the best Anma Bath House in South Kensington, relaxed, and asked if he wanted anything while he waited. Speaking softly and with suitable meekness, Mycroft said he was content as he was but would be guided by her recommendations.

Slightly mollified, Madame Ishida sniffed lightly, saying she would organise food for them both, once the beautiful lady was back on her feet and sufficiently recovered to eat. Giving him a last look through narrowed eyes, the Japanese woman returned to the sliding partition and re-entered the next room.

Realising he had perhaps better give his attention to something other than the tantalising scene less than twenty feet away, Mycroft picked up Grace's ultrabook which he'd been unwilling to leave in the Jaguar. Flipping the slender laptop open and switching it on, a smile curved his mouth as he saw Grace had instituted her own security protocols over and above those of MI5, which was only a slight obstacle, given that he had designed the MI5 ones himself.

What faced him now in the centre of the logon screen, was a square arrangement of twelve different icons, each one clearly a segment of some larger image, by the looks of things, some large oil painting. Touching the tip of an index finger to the first icon, he watched as it split into four smaller boxes, again, each one different from its peers. His smile widening, he touched the first of the four boxes, which then divided itself into seven more. Clearly a visually coded PIN connecting a specific date or dates with the password she had chosen.

Mentally, he rubbed his hands. This might be amusing.

Touching the first icon which would logically be a correlation of January, he had barely touched the next box when the entire arrangement of squares folded into itself, disappeared and, within moments, the laptop itself had gone into automatic shutdown.

_Ah ha_ ... so _that_ _was the way it was?_

Switching the laptop back on, the same grouping of twelve colourful boxes appeared, waiting for the sure touch of its owner to come and unlock its secrets.

Relieved to have something to divert his thoughts from the ... distraction next door, Mycroft focused the entirety of his mind on the puzzle before him.

###

Grace felt a gentle touch on her right shoulder, at which she opened her eyes and lifted her head from its resting-place against the back of the round wooden tub where a folded towel had been placed beneath her neck as a support.

"Up, please," the woman who had brought her into the building in the first place stood back, holding out a voluminous white towel, making it clear Grace's time in the bath was over.

Forcing herself to stand in the cooling water, Grace realised that she didn't ache quite so much, although she still felt absurdly weary. Stepping up onto the small stone seat inside the tub and then onto the stool outside, she was immediately wrapped in the big soft towel and dried like a child. It should have made her feel silly but instead she felt nothing but ease and comfort. As soon as she was touch-dry, the second woman returned with a cobweb-fine white robe which wrapped her from ankle to throat as it was bound loosely around her body. The delicate fabric smelled of sunshine and fresh air.

Ushering her across to a padded table on high legs, Grace was urged to lie on her front, observing, as she did, a huge stone pot filled with rounded black stones.

Tucking the soft cotton robe around her, the two women proceeded to massage and knead every part of her body, from the nape of her neck down the curve of her spine; their dextrous fingers and the points of their elbows locating and removing every knot and tension-point they could find, calming each area with the laying-on of hot stones as they moved towards her feet. Even her fingers were rolled and squeezed until it felt that every bone in her body had somehow been removed. The women left her to lie there while the stones cooled a little, and though she still felt tired, Grace realised she was no longer sleepy but instead felt invigorated and increasingly alert.

As the younger of the two women returned and began removing the heavy stones, Grace finally managed to sit up on the platform, her feet dangling over the edge.

"That was incredible, thank you," she smiled, utterly relaxed.

Smiling and nodding, the young Japanese woman lifted up a mostly plain, dark-green kimono and indicated that Grace should stand.

Still wearing the thin white robe beneath and sliding her arms into the heavy fabric, Grace waited while a wide band of the same dark green printed fabric was tied snugly around her waist. There was a pair of simple sandals for her feet, and a wide comb was pulled carefully though her hair to give it some semblance of order. Feeling amazingly refreshed and revitalised, Grace was happy to be led by the hand to the sliding paper door, ducking her head as she stepped through.

The light in the room beyond was as dim as the one she'd just left, but this side looked more like a splendid lounge than anything else.

Grace stopped short as Mycroft lifted his face from her laptop, his eyes glittering and strange in the lamp-lit room. He stood, watching her as she walked closer.

Aware that Grace had emerged from the bathing room, clad in a rich green robe which set off her fair hair and light skin, Mycroft forgot, for a moment, the delicious puzzle she had left on her computer. His whole mind was filled with her as she walked closer, her body exuding a soft floral fragrance unlike her preferred citrus. Her face was washed clean of any cosmetic and she glowed, renewed and enlivened.

Standing, his heart began to speed from its normal cadence as she walked towards him; the notion that she might not stop before she walked completely into his arms made him swallow convulsively, and he was glad of the dim light. Everything about her shouted she was feeling so very much better; her step, the curve of her neck, even the way she held her hands. He didn't need to ask how she felt, but he did anyway ... he had to say something or risk losing the power of speech.

Fortunately, Miyu brought the food she'd promised, and he'd been able to calm himself somewhat as Grace's attention turned from him to her hunger. Mycroft frowned inwardly; she really had been working too hard if she was this exhausted. The last thing he wanted was for her to become ill, but he hadn't thought to include her own determination and obsessive perfectionism with her work. He would not make that mistake again.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asked, already knowing the answer by the way she held her head and the line of her shoulders.

"Much," Grace smiled, tilting her head to one side as she rolled her shoulders. "I'm not sure what it was they did, but I'm prepared to argue that magic was probably involved."

"Madam Ishida has been known to work miracles before," he nodded, indicating a chair close to his. "There'll be some food in a moment."

"That would be lovely," Grace sank gratefully into the voluptuous armchair, curling her legs up underneath her, just as Miyu returned bearing a large tray with a number of small, covered bamboo containers and larger, lidded bowls. Laying her burden down on a low table between them, she set out a small plate with a covered bamboo dish first for Grace and then Mycroft. Laying an elegant pair of shiny black chopsticks beside each of their plates, the Japanese woman muttered something, bowed, and left them to it.

"Shall I be mother?" Mycroft lifted the small teapot above two small ceramic cups.

"Oh, please," Grace only then realised how parched she felt. "Tea sounds like a wonderful idea right now."

Lifting the lid from the dish before her, Grace was delighted to find a selection of beautiful tempura, which she immediately began to nibble as Mycroft poured them both tea. He handed her a cup.

"Thank you for this," Grace felt so utterly without tension that it was almost as if she were melting into the fabric of her chair. "I feel so very much better."

"The chef of this establishment was once at the Dorchester," he said, taking up his own plate. "The food is probably the best you'll find outside of one or two Japanese restaurants in the City."

Munching her way through the entire bowl of delicious food was no effort, although it seemed to make her hungrier.

The next pair of bowls also had tightly fitted lids which once removed, proved to contain a small portion of a very fragrant Miso soup. Drinking it straight from the bowl, Grace enjoyed the sensation of warmth easing through her entire system. "This is really good," she murmured, finishing that last of the Miso and turning her attention back to the table. "What's next?"

"I believe Miyu would have something substantial for you in one of those larger containers," Mycroft leaned forward, examining the various chinaware. "She made it very clear that I was a brute and a beast and the lowest of the low by bringing you to such a level of exhaustion, and that I had no right to expect civilised society unless I did everything in my power to facilitate the most rapid of recoveries for you," he added, half-smiling. "So, eat," he nodded at the larger of two bowls. "I feel Madam Ishida will not permit you to leave these premises until she has assured herself you are thoroughly fed."

"How on earth did you find this place?" Grace leaned forward again, lifting the lid of one big bowl to be met with a steaming pot of ramen, with prawns and chicken and more vegetables. It was exactly what she needed right now. It was perfect. She smiled happily.

Mycroft toyed with his plate, watching as unobtrusively as possible, while Grace made short work of the assembled dinner.

_Omega ..._

He poured them both more tea, not really hungry himself; his body too flooded with supressed desire and even above that, with the knowledge that she no longer despised him.

Grace might be furious with him still, in some part of her mind; possibly even to the point where she might never really forgive him for the callous manner in which she was cast aside by him some two years previously. But by every sign he knew how to read, she no longer _loathed_ him, and the knowledge burned with a hot little flame inside his chest, rendering the idea of food irrelevant.

But if he didn't eat, then she might not eat either, and she needed to; needed to regain her ... her everything ... he closed his eyes momentarily, knowing in that second that he had to make this plan succeed. He wasn't sure he could bear the idea of failing in his strategy, or that Grace might not eventually come back to him. His stomach lurched at the thought. He had to find a way to bring her as close to him as he felt to her.

But she no longer despised him. A small step, perhaps, but a critical one.

Grace was ploughing through the food as if she hadn't eaten since the beginning of the week, although he knew that was not the case. The energy she must have expended during the day was at the extreme edge of her resources if she was so drained by the end of it. He would have to ensure that she was not put at such risk again.

_Omega ... my Omega_.

"Are you not hungry?" Grace's voice cut into his thoughts. "You don't seem to be eating much."

"Unlike you, I am better able, it seems, to husband my reserves," his tone was on the edge of cool. His need for her was now anything but; the thrum of it in his veins making him unusually reckless.

"You didn't have to bring me here, you know," she said. "I would have been fine after a good night's sleep."

"Until you put yourself in this position once again?" he shook his head. "I can't have anyone on my staff so totally drained that they become a liability to themselves or others," he paused, assessing her with a practiced eye. "You need to work fewer hours."

Laughing, Grace put her spoon down. "Are you mad?" she laughed again. "This opportunity will never come again; if I don't grab it with both hands now, then ..." her voice trailed away. "_Your_ staff?"

###

He had been here for two days now, but was still getting lost even though he'd spent almost all of those two days walking around the back streets and alleyways of Oxford itself. Fortunately these days, it didn't much matter if you saw someone walking around with their face stuck into a phone screen; it made map-reading a great deal less obtrusive that the old days with large and unwieldy paper maps.

Right now, he was at the intersection of Broad and George Streets, looking south, down towards the old Cornmarket. On one side of him was Jesus College; straight ahead was Trinity and, to his left, was Balloil.

Jason Redcar scowled hugely. These streets were almost unnavigable in the daytime, god only knew what they'd be like in the dark; there were so many narrow little streets, a lot of pedestrian-only sections and so many roads chopped off with row of stone bollards. It made the whole idea of driving around the town an absolute nightmare to the average visitor.

Which was precisely the reason he was here, in the growing dark; He already knew the roads according to the map, but now he wanted to get to know them from the ground up. If he were going to be driving a fast car at a very fast speed with, perhaps, other fast cars chasing him, then he wanted to know, to absolutely _know_ for _sure_ that he was going to be able to get away from them. And so he walked the streets of oxford in the dark, oblivious to the centuries-old architecture and the beauty of the formal Plantagenet gardens, reserving his entire concentration for the phone screen in his hand and the names of the streets and alleyways flowing beneath his feet. He was far more interested in dead-ends; street lights and intersections that weren't actually on the map.

Jason wasn't worried too much about the confusion of roadways; he was going to be here for another week checking and rechecking everything. Mr Roberts needed and expected ever last tiny preparation to be in place long before anything would be allowed to happen. Sighing, he turned left up Magdalen Street and shook his head, as he had done several times already this morning, at the sheer volume of bicycles parked in long rows down the pavement. Damn things always got in the way and never moved fast enough when there was need.

He hated bikes.

###

It had been too soon for her to know, he realised; too soon and poorly timed. He had hoped to have been able to build somewhat on the fragile rapport that was re-emerging between them before he went anywhere near this. But his pleasure in her presence had rendered him careless, and, for once, he had spoken from genuine concern rather than purposeful design.

But too late now for regret.

"Technically," he nodded. "Yes."

"But how can I be on your staff when I report to Gerald Palmer who is, the last time I looked, Head of MI5?" Grace had stopped eating, an odd sense telling her there was something important here, something she needed to clarify.

Mycroft sighed. He really hadn't wanted to take this path so soon.

"Technically, Gerald Palmer reports to the Home Secretary," he said, nodding once. "And ... to me."

"MI5 reports to you?" her words were slow, as if she were trying to visualise the connections in her head. "You're Gerald's boss?"

"The Home Secretary is MI5's master," Mycroft linked his fingers and tried to sound as if all this were perfectly mundane. "I am merely a cog in the government machine."

"And what about MI6?" Grace was suddenly thoughtful. "And GCHQ? Joint Intelligence? The Army? The _Police?_" she leaned forward in her soft chair, a hand at her throat, her eyes widening. "Who _are_ you?"

Suddenly understanding that if there were truly to be an honest relationship between them at any point in the future, then he could not be selective with information about himself. Given the circumstances, Grace was asking a perfectly reasonable question and he was about to find out if he were game enough to provide a truthful answer.

"You might consider me a specialist security consultant for the government," he said, at last. "I have certain authority and powers over the deployment and policies of the joint security forces in Britain and ergo, a small say in how they are run and how their various operational activities are best focused in order to most easily meet the national interest."

"You can tell Anthony Kell and Gerald Palmer what to _do?_" Grace felt a horrible fascination with the idea. "Then who tells _you_ what to do?"

Steepling his fingers once again, Mycroft raised an eyebrow but said nothing, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "There are very few people with a sufficiently high security-clearance to listen to my problems," he said, a faint smile breaking through. "And none of them have ever felt the desire to tell me to do anything," he added. "Think of me as a clearing house of the British Government."

"Then, indirectly, everyone who works in the Security Services works for you?" Grace watched his face, not that his face ever gave anything away.

"Only in the broadest of terms," Mycroft shook his head. "And I really only need to know about the more senior of staff," he said. "Those who may only be a few steps removed from the big decisions; the policy-makers," his eyes held hers. "Those whom I may most profitably bend to the purpose of my office."

"People like me?" Grace knew the answer already, but some devil inside her forced the question. It was like prodding a bruise to see how much it hurt. "You're talking about people like me ... and like the others on the secondment."

Mycroft remained impassive. If this discovery was too much for her, then his plan might already be in ruins. He swallowed dryly and reached for the cooling tea, but managed to refrain from holding his breath.

Saying nothing, Grace returned her attention to the bowl of food in front of her, sipping slowly from the flattened spoon, the flavours that had only moments ago delighted her palate were now almost without taste.

"Who else knows this?"

Mycroft was surprised at the question, expecting a much different response. "Other than my political masters, my brother has a fairly comprehensive understanding of what I do," he looked momentarily introspective. "Doctor Watson suspects, and I believe the good D.I. Lestrade has by now worked out I may wield a _little_ more authority than other public servants."

"And nobody else?"

He shook his head slowly. "It is not a topic I usually discuss."

"Then why tell me?" Grace stopped eating again and fixed him with a frank stare.

Mycroft took a little breath. _Perhaps the situation might yet be salvaged..._ "I told you yesterday that I trusted you," he looked down at the skin pulled tight over his knuckles. "And I do."

"You trust me that much?" Grace felt a little overwhelmed. She had always known that he was different from other men; that there was something deeper and more remote in him than she was used to seeing. She had always known he was special.

_Alpha_.

Grace closed her eyes as the memory of Cambridge floated into her thoughts. Of how, at his request, she had made herself so utterly vulnerable to him, and how he had rewarded such unquestioning behaviour. And now, just because he said he trusted _her_ didn't mean that he ... didn't mean anything else.

She sighed, a little sadly. If Mycroft Holmes were everything he claimed, then it was easier to understand why he wouldn't want any real ... friendship with her. He would use her exactly the same way he must use dozens of people every day in order to get his job done.

She could hardly fault the man for that.

But it meant that she was never ever going to be any more to him than a well-purposed tool. Grace smiled forlornly. She was nothing more now than Mycroft's little spy.

"I think I should go home," she said, quietly. "I have a lot of work to do tonight and an early start tomorrow," she added, raising her eyes to his. "I'm sure they'll let me call a cab from here."

Mycroft wasn't sure which way Grace's reaction should be taken, though she clearly wasn't happy about something. Either she believed him but was uncomfortable with the notion that she worked – indirectly – for his office, or she didn't believe him and the entire discussion had been nothing more than a large pit into which he had fallen. He felt a strange desire to convince her that he was genuine, that Grace needed to know how important she was … how important she was to _him_.

"I do wish you'd forgive me, you know," he said suddenly, his mouth operating independently of his brain. "I realise my treatment of you two years ago was unspeakable but you must believe me when I say I had no intention of causing you any lasting distress."

Grace felt her heart rate speed frantically as he touched on a topic she had dared not subject to close examination. She didn't even want to think about it, not now, not ever. It was in the past and done with.

"Forgive you for what?" she looked up, a deliberate nuance of surprise in her voice. "I assure you there is nothing between us that demands forgiveness," she added, putting the bowl back down on the table now that her appetite had wholly disappeared. "But now I really must be off," Grace murmured, standing. "I have a lot to do."

Sighing inwardly in defeat, Mycroft stood too. "I'll have the car come around the front and take you home," he spoke briefly into his Nokia. "You'll need this," he added, handing her the laptop.

Observing that her twelve squares still held centre stage on the opening screen, Grace felt a wave of real astonishment. He hadn't gone through her code? Why ever not? It was hardly complex enough to thwart a Holmes, especially if he was everything he said he was. She looked at him, directly, with no pretence between them in the dimly-lit room of paper walls, filled with over-comfortable furniture and the pervasive smell of sandalwood in all the air around them.

"Why haven't you ..?" she waved at the screen.

"While I would be the first to admit I am blessed with a good mind," Mycroft studied her face, wonderingly. This was to be a night of truths, apparently. "Even I can only devote the entirety of my thoughts to one thing at a time," he said, softly, a faintly rueful curve to his mouth. "And for some while now, there has been one particular thing that has absorbed by far the greater portion of them," he stepped a little closer in order that he could see the light in her eyes with, for once, nothing between them. "Something so all-encompassing, that at times I have a problem thinking about anything else."

Grace stood, mesmerized, not so much by his words, but by the _sound_ of his words; so smooth and seductive … she had always liked the way he spoke; it made unpalatable things seem less awful.

A small voice in the back of her head pointed out that he was the supreme negotiator, and she was in real danger, right now, of being talked into an accord of some sort.

For which she was not ready; might never be ready.

Taking a sharp breath, she stepped back, looking around for the bag in which Miyu had put her street clothes. Clasping her laptop to her chest, she looked at him, a prickle of something very close to panic in her chest.

"I want to go home now." Even to herself, Grace knew she sounded curiously breathless.


	4. Chapter 4 Extrapolation

**Extrapolation**

_New Muscle – By the Book – A Time of Trust – Something Very Odd – So Close – Oxford – Curiouser and Curiouser – A Kind of Déjà Vu._

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#

She hadn't seen the black Jaguar for almost a week, nor had she heard anything from Mycroft himself since that last evening they had been together at the Japanese bath house.

The interim time had passed quickly; Grace was amazed how fast the hours actually went when you were deep, deep into research, so deep, in fact, that time itself really did become irrelevant. That she and the other members of her newly-formed project team were working in a room without windows or any visible clocks made the hours fly past even more swiftly. In one way, it was exhilarating, in another, terrifying. She hadn't been this deeply immersed in research since her doctorate, nor had she been so tired; they all were.

But by the end of this first week, each of them on the secondment; herself, Zita, David, Harrison and Paul, had been given their own investigative teams, consisting of two research assistants and an administrative aide. There had been a strange sort of breather in the second-floor meeting room the day before when it became clear that the five of them could no longer handle the workload alone, nor could they all inhabit the same space; it had become too noisy, with phones ringing and multiple trans-global conversations muttering and echoing into life all over the place.

And thus, she had come into the MoD building in Whitehall on the Friday of the first week, fully expecting to continue as she had, and all the others had been doing since Monday. But a very great deal had changed. Though she came in through the exact same door on the second floor as she had for the last four days, Grace found herself in a totally different space.

Instead of a large room with a central, though divisible, table, she now stood in a _very_ large space, with the two walls at the narrow ends seemingly pushed back to at least triple the space previously theirs to use. How this feat of engineering had been accomplished overnight, none of them were able to confirm. Harrison swore blind the walls at each end of the room had been solid; he'd checked himself, he'd even spent almost an hour leaning up against one of them during an _ad hoc_ debate with Paul Wu on the advantages and disadvantages of single portals on multiple databases versus multiple portals on a single _meta_database. The former would enable faster connection and interrogation, but lack security, while the latter could be secured to their heart's content, but would be a massive beast of a thing that might eventually prove to be too dense to navigate in real time, neither of which option was particularly favourable. They'd talked about cloud-technology, which was incredibly vulnerable but globally accessible and secured thresholds, which were totally protected, but unacceptably limited to a specific number of simultaneous users. The wall against which Harrison was leaning had taken several hefty thumps with his shoe as frustration began to set in. It had been solid stone; he was prepared to swear it.

Additionally, expecting to find the one segmented central table, everyone was surprised but quietly relieved to discover there were now _five_ of the things, spaced equidistant around the room, each one with its own communications hub, technical support centre, complete with additional laptops, phones, printers and scanners.

There were also three total strangers sitting at each of the five tables.

Sir Anthony Kell was there too, as he had been on the first day, to introduce the secondees to this, the second stage of the practicum.

"In the process of exploring each of your individual projects, it was clear that the workload would soon become too much for any one of you to explore productively, and so please meet your own and temporary research and support personnel, each of whom has been selected to assist you based on their own skillset and knowledge. Introduce yourselves and explain the nature of the project your team will be investigating over the next several weeks," he nodded briefly, giving each of the archival experts several minutes to talk with the newcomers before he walked between each table, offering a few words of encouragement and advice.

Pondering the possible reasons behind the introduction of a research team, as well as who might _really_ be behind such a move, Grace sat at the head of the third table Kell visited. The three people assigned to her particular project's research were Damien Burton, Lars Hult and Mengfang Sheng, each of them, in their own way, something of an emergent specialist. Damien was apparently an up-and-coming IT whizz, specialising in data-mining and software architecture; Mengfang had just completed her PhD in solid-state mechanics, and Lars was in the last days of his MBA at Imperial University and very keen to land a job with any one of the security organisations. He was also a _blindingly_ fast typist and knew more about project-management software than could possibly be good for him.

"And how has the research been going in the last couple of days?" Sir Anthony's words, directed at Grace were reserved but nothing less than amiable.

"Very well, Director," she smiled, pleased at the thought of having some real help. "And should go a great deal faster now with this additional support you've organised, thank you."

Kell smiled, shaking his head a little. "I'm not the one to thank," he said cryptically, his tone deliberately low, his meaning ambiguous. He turned, smiled a little and walked to the next table before she had a chance to seek clarification.

But at least now, Grace knew the great list of tasks she'd built up might be actioned in days rather than weeks, and not all of it by herself. That knowledge alone made it easier for her to relax a little and she felt the rigid line of tension in her spine ease. The sheer volume of work she'd unwittingly taken on had started to become something of a nightmare, but now there were four of them able to work on it ... she smiled in quiet relief as she explained to her new team what she was doing and where she most needed their assistance.

Sharing out the bulk research she'd already done between Mengfang and Damien, she left them to follow her various trains of thought through the mass of data she'd already accumulated, while she sat with Lars.

"You know each other?" Grace had wondered about the undeniable camaraderie already extant between her three new team-mates. Lars was clearly Nordic, Mengfang just as obviously Chinese, while Damien sounded about as London as was possible to get.

He nodded. "We're all taking part in a new kind of government internship program," he paused and gestured around the room towards the other research teams, as he set up his own laptop, squinting down at the twelve miniaturised painting still poised, unmoving on her desktop screen. "That some new kind of encrypted password program?" he asked. "Can we get a copy of it for our laptops?"

"Don't see why not," Grace opened programs on her own ultrabook and realised there was a new network available for her use. Small, it only had four visible users, but it hadn't been available for her yesterday, that was for sure. How entirely convenient.

Lifting her eyebrows, she sent copies of the password program she'd designed to all the other members of her network, glancing sideways as the other two automatically checked the incoming message.

"Read the instructions before installing the program," she advised. "You have to pick one of the paintings as your first month, as they rotate every time you reboot. Don't shut down your systems until you've done everything necessary or it'll be damn hard to get back in," she added, standing to go and get herself a coffee.

Leaning back against the very same wall which Harrison Carter had sworn was solid; Grace felt her head spin a little at the speed with which things were changing around her right now.

The secondment had, in a matter of days, turned into something completely different from the way she'd imagined. The original group of five had formed a close alliance beaten into existence in the crucible of intensive research; even the way they were working had changed; the demanding collaborative work; the long and unremitting hours, the constantly charged atmosphere ... though they had only been working together for a week, it was clear to see how they had all become more serious, more thoughtful, more careful.

And then there was her private life.

Since the night at the bath-house, though she hadn't heard from Mycroft, their last conversation still echoed round and around her head. He had sounded so sincere when he had asked her forgiveness, and even if her brain hadn't found the words easy to hear, the rest of her body had. Her heart had immediately flown into overdrive. Everything had gone into a spin as she heard the _Alpha_ speak for once without the inevitable filter of diplomacy. It had been too much to grasp and the only response she had been able to make was one of polite dismissal.

And not that she was in any way interested of course, but he had more-or-less admitted he had been thinking about her … which was patently ridiculous. He wasn't the type of man to change his mind like that, not without something really big happening that might make him want to change his mind … and, _oh, my god_ … she couldn't think; couldn't think about anything when he looked at her. The dark blue of his eyes … like subtle movements of dangerous shapes in deep-sea currents.

And then there were the flowers.

Since Monday, she had received no less than _five_ bouquets of the magnificent, dark red roses. Her apartment was awash with their glorious perfume from the dozens and dozens of the _Papa Meilland_ blooms she now had filling every tall vase and container she possessed. After the third bouquet which she found waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs with the same, plain white card _Thinking of you_, Grace decided to spend a little research time on the roses before anything else. And so she now knew the type of rose someone was sending her, and that the only place she could find within the Home Counties who grew them, were a few small and specialised flower-farms in Kent. Following _that_ little piece of information, she tried tracking down which London florists bought their roses wholesale from these particular nurseries, but there were so many florists to check and they just wasn't enough time to do it. There had to be a more effective way.

But now, she realised; she had some additional research muscle.

###

Though he was self-reliant in almost every situation that might be given a name, Mycroft was only too well aware he suffered from a lack of data in a few _specific_ areas, leading to an unacceptable uncertainty of action. One of these areas encompassed the courtship of a woman and specifically, of Grace Chandler. He was a great believer in seeking the advice of acknowledged experts insofar as they were able to offer him information he could use, and thus he had immersed himself in a number of texts; serious, reputable, authoritative tomes on the delicate topic of attraction between the sexes, each of which purported to explain the mysteries of wooing. Several of them sat on his desk at that very moment, including _The Alpha to Omega of Romance_, which professed to demystify the process from a very specialised perspective.

As suggested by all the texts in the aftermath of a significant emotional outpouring, he had deliberately kept himself from any direct contact with Grace since the evening at the bath house. The books had required initially that he renew contact with her, and this he had done. The cumulative advice then demanded that, in addition to short but increasing bursts of direct contact, he should begin to develop a more favourable rapport with the subject of his desire, through small, personal gifts and thoughtful services; little things that would make her feel appreciated and valued. It was also mooted that a certain level of anonymity might add a touch of mystery which could appeal if the bewoo'd one was of a questioning nature. Only too well aware of Grace's remorseless curiosity, the idea of sending her anonymous gifts held more than a small amount of attraction.

The books also mentioned flowers. Specifically, rose-type flowers.

He had a pretty clear idea that Grace would like roses; didn't every woman like them? And thus he had placed an open-ended order direct with the proprietor of a small market-garden nursery just outside Sevenoaks, for two dozen dark red roses to be sent daily to her apartment. He'd first thought to send them every morning to the MoD where she'd be for the next few weeks, but after Harrison Carter, _colonial philanderer extraordinaire_, had the contemptible nerve to leverage his own seduction based upon the anonymous nature of the first delivery, Mycroft had immediately changed his instructions to have them taken direct to Grace's home, instead. Though the owner of the rose-farm had initially objected to the excessive effort of ensuring delivery, Mycroft had cut him short, saying preparations would be made for the flowers to be collected on a daily basis. The nurseryman's only job therefore was to ensure a ravishing bouquet of his very best blooms were available first thing in the morning, every morning, until advised otherwise.

Ravishing and _red_. Dark red and perfumed. The books were quite insistent on that. Anthea had been most helpful in organising both the delivery of the roses as well as writing a number of plain white cards for the purpose. Plain and anonymous.

And then there were the small, sweet things he knew Grace enjoyed; the chocolate cake, for instance. He had suspected Grace would have a weakness for rich chocolate sweets ever since that first dinner they'd shared two years ago at the Dorchester where she'd literally spoon-fed him ice cream and a dark chocolate sauce. The books specifically recommended that he send her sweet things to eat, why, he wasn't entirely sure. Something to do with subconscious and subliminal association, no doubt.

So he had organised the cake, only to watch, aghast, via one of the Conference Room's monitor cameras, as Grace had used a goodly portion of the dessert in her interrogation of Zita Loretto. Mycroft had felt his eyes narrow at that, but the books had said nothing about what should happen to these gifts once gifted. He decided that sending anything edible to the workplace was probably not, all things considered, a practical idea. He would find an alternative.

He smiled. There was a wine auction at Sotheby's that very afternoon. He would inspect their catalogue and see if they had any decent lots of Dom Perignon _Cru_; he knew Grace appreciated a reasonable champagne, and he could have a special courier take them directly to her apartment. Anonymously, of course. It was fortunate that Anthea had created a large stock of the small white cards.

The books further suggested that he present her with other small items to demonstrate a knowledge of her interests and enthusiasms. At least that was an easy one to work out given the magnitude and content of the library in the centre of her home. All he would need to do is locate something rare and special. Mycroft immediately considered Sotheby's again. Would it be too much to send her some first editions? Nothing excessively expensive, but some ancient imprints that would both please her sense of history and pique her knowledge that someone was, indeed, thinking of her.

Taking care to read everything the texts had to say on the topic of gift-giving, Mycroft smiled to himself once again. There was one other offering already in the pipeline; something he hoped Grace would find irresistible, although the sending was a little way off. Hopefully, by the time she received this, his final gift, her feelings towards him might be reciprocated. If nothing else, he would know immediately if his plan had been successful or not.

Something inside him shivered. It was either anticipation or dread, but he chose not to examine the sensation too closely.

Not yet.

###

There had been yet _another_ bouquet of roses waiting for her when she arrived home on the Friday evening, but this time, it was accompanied by a friend in the shape of a dark glass bottle bearing the golden embossed label of a very well-known champagne-maker. Grace sighed and shook her head as she picked up the wine and the tell-tale long black box tied, once again, with a wide red ribbon and the little white card. _Who was doing this?_ Was this some sort of stalking? Should she, in fact, be really worried?

She had tried every way she knew how to see if any of the others in the secondment would react in the slightest manner to her talking about the flowers. She had held conversations with each of them, even, to her lasting mortification, with Sir Anthony himself. The great man had appeared somewhat bewildered by the conversation at first, but had smiled enigmatically once she'd explained.

"Sounds like you have an admirer," he lifted an eyebrow. "A persistent one, at that."

Grace had looked pained. "But I can't work out who it _is_," she sighed. "You'd think I'd have at least some idea who it might be, but I really have no clue. I wondered if it might be Harrison Carter," she added, noncommittally.

"Harrison Carter the man, or Harrison Carter the man from the _CIA?_" Kell narrowed his eyes a little at that notion. It wouldn't do to have MI5's best and fairest poached away by the Americans. Gerald Palmer would not be pleased if his golden girl were lost overseas as a direct result of this secondment. It might be worthwhile keeping an eye on the amorous professor, just in case.

"I don't know anything anymore," Grace looked irritated. "But it has to be someone in here because the first bunch appeared here on the first day, and we," she waved a hand around the room, "are the only ones, apart from Gerald, who know I'm here."

"Leave it with me," Kell nodded. "I'll make some discreet inquiries, see if I can come up with a name for you," he said. If it was Harrison, it mightn't be a bad idea to have a quiet word. Palmer would not be forgiving if Chandler were persuaded to leave London; not that Gerald's personal feelings were at all the issue, but having MI5's willing co-operation was sometimes a useful thing.

Feeling a little better knowing that one of the most powerful people in the land was prepared to take her part, Grace had felt the Alpha in Kell rouse at the idea that a foreign male might be hunting on British turf. She rolled her eyes: Alphas were so predictable.

And now she was finally at home after a manic week of events, feeling totally whacked and faced with yet another box of glorious red roses and more champagne. Grace didn't know whether to laugh crazily or be worried that she still had no idea who was responsible for any of it.

Nor did she have any more empty vases.

Making an executive decision, she rang for a taxi, before taking all the earlier bouquets, the flowers still vibrant and fresh, and wrapping them firmly in rolls of newspaper tied with thick kitchen string. Carrying the five enormous bunches down to the ground floor just as the taxi arrived; she laid the flowers on the back seat and asked the driver to take them all to St Thomas's Hospital, a two-minute drive, to be placed on the wards. Handing the driver a twenty, she ran back upstairs to rinse out her best vase and use it for the newest flowers. Even though the bulk of the blooms had now gone, her apartment was still redolent with their perfume and she closed her eyes, breathing it in. She hoped whoever was sending these lovely things had some idea of their beauty

Grace was too tired to worry about cooking anything for dinner. She thought she might have some cheese and a glass of wine, maybe watch some mindless television and then hit the sack; she really didn't feel up to much more than that.

Her mobile rang.

Grace groaned. Not _now_. Not _tonight_. Whoever it was, she was in no mood ...

The sender's name was private. It could be almost anyone, but to have her direct number _and_ to have an anonymous call-ID ... it might be Kell. Grace flicked the little green phone button.

"I am aware that you have most likely exhausted your physical reserves _again_," Mycroft's voice was clear, as was his inevitably snarky attitude. "Yet I have need to speak with you regarding your efforts in the Wu situation," he said. "There will be a delivery of comestibles to your apartment in approximately fifteen minutes and I shall arrive shortly thereafter. See you very soon," the line went dead.

Closing her eyes, Grace took a deep breath. Of all the things she did _not_ want to have to deal with right at this precise moment, Mycroft Holmes would be somewhere near the top. If she had had his number, she would have phoned him right back, telling him she was about to have a very early night. But her phone obstinately refused to call back. Thus, she had to expect the delivery; though god only knew what Mycroft might consider as 'comestibles', and then the appearance of Himself.

But she'd be damned if she were going to change her routine for anyone, least of all him. Stripping off the suit she'd worn today, she piled everything into her laundry hamper, reminding herself to sort out the dry-cleaning things in the morning.

Walking straight into her shower, she revelled in several minutes of pulsing hot water which took not only the day's grime, but also some of the accumulated weariness away with it.

Slipping into fresh underclothes, Grace rummaged around in her wardrobe for a clean pair of jeans which she shimmed on, plus a ratty old navy blue Vitruvian Man t-shirt, faded and baggy. It was one of her favourites. Fortunately, her hair wouldn't take long to dry or require much in the way of taming, and after dragging her fingers through it, she left it be. If Mycroft chose to turn up virtually unannounced, then he'd just have to take pot luck; she was too tired to worry about his delicate sensibilities tonight.

Just as she'd pushed her feet into an old pair of white plimsolls, the doorbell rang. Checking the wall-clock, she saw it was almost precisely fifteen minutes since Mycroft's call. The man was nothing if not accurate. She opened the door, expecting to see someone from a local takeaway, with a couple of plastic bags.

What she _actually_ saw was Mycroft Holmes, a large, heavy paper carrier-bag in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other, so cold that condensation was still forming on the dark glass.

"I come in peace," he said, lifting both the bottle and the bag. "May I come in?"

Giving him something of an evil eye as she stood away from the door, Grace directed him through to the kitchen. "I'm sure you remember your way around."

Ignoring the faintly acerbic tone, Mycroft navigated straight through the library to the kitchen where he set the bottle down on the cool granite bench top. "Glasses?"

Saying nothing, Grace opened a nearby glass-fronted cupboard, extracting two elegant champagne flutes.

"Plates?"

Still in silence, she leaned down to a lower cabinet to lift out two perfectly plain white bone china plates, and, before he had a chance to ask, several serving spoons and a couple of forks from the top in a series of drawers.

Opening the sealed top of the very substantial-looking brown paper carrier, Mycroft peered inside, as if wondering what to reveal first.

"Not sure if you'll like any of this, but it's fairly innocuous stuff," he said, bringing out plastic containers of rice and vegetables and meats and sauces. Then there were several bags of what looked like naan bread.

"Indian?" Grace couldn't recall the last time she'd been to an Indian restaurant, but her mouth started to water at the memory. "Good thinking," she smiled in anticipation, bringing out several small round metal trays on which she loaded the cartons, taking them to the breakfast table.

There was a soft _pop_ as Mycroft uncorked the champagne.

"Not the usual accompaniment with curry, I admit," he said, filling the two flutes. "But I tried this once and now prefer this particular _brut_ over virtually anything else with such food." He held out a glass towards her.

Sipping the almost clear fizzy wine, Grace smiled. There was a hint of spice among the bubbles; crisp and dry and wonderful.

"You do know how to choose a perfect champagne," she smiled, lifting the glass in a salute.

Tilting his head in silent acceptance of his due, Mycroft laid out a series of sealed containers. "Lamb raan," he nodded approvingly. "Ginger and plum curried chicken," he added, pushing another container forward. "Sirloin boti, wild garlic masala and kakori kebabs," he finished, peeling open a larger plastic tub. "Basmati rice," he said, lifting his eyes to hers. "Black rice," he opened a sealed pot, showing Grace the most amazing purple-coloured rice imaginable. "Tastes divine," he lifted both eyebrows and sounded almost teasing.

"Very well," Grace felt strangely lightheaded. She must be hungrier than she realised, or perhaps the champagne was stronger than usual. "You may stay and have dinner while you tell me whatever it is that's clearly so urgent that an email wouldn't do," she said. "Although I hope you're not expecting anything more on Paul Wu, because I don't have anything."

"I have no desire to discuss Mr Wu just yet," Mycroft carried a tray full of containers in one hand and an ice-bucket with the champagne in the other. Setting both burdens on the table, he refilled the flutes and sat, eyeing the various delicacies.

"I'm sorry, but I'm too hungry to be polite," Grace reached over for first the white and then the black rice, savouring a forkful of the deep purple grain as she did.

Rolling her eyes at the richly nutty taste, she grinned, pleased. "What do you recommend as an entrée?" she asked, her eyes moving from one delicious offering to the next.

"Try these," Mycroft deftly served them both several of the small kakori kebabs, opening some of the minor tubs to reveal several different chutneys and sauces.

Taking some of the still-hot naan, Grace improvised a hot-dog with a kebab and some fragrant green chutney.

It was heaven on a plate.

Mycroft held his peace, but something very deep inside him was suddenly extraordinarily pleased that she was enjoying the food he'd brought. So overwhelming potent was the feeling that, for a moment, his own appetite entirely faded, overtaken by an internal smoulder of pleasure that was almost a tangible thing, almost a sexual thing. It warmed him like nothing else he could recall.

_Omega_ ...

He suspected the books would say he was fulfilling an ancient need by providing sustenance for his potential mate; that the fundamental act of feeding the woman of his choice was placating the inner beast. Not terribly impressed by the idea that he had just regressed to his Neolithic ancestors, Mycroft was still aware of the feeling and the probable reason behind it.

And he didn't give a damn.

Not only had he, apparently, succeeded in moving beyond Grace's detestation of him, but it seemed she had arrived at the place where she found his company tolerable, even, he exulted internally, appreciated. Taking care to maintain an outwardly impassive expression, a substantial satisfaction blossomed and grew inside him with every sign of her continued enjoyment.

Ensuring their glasses were topped up, he felt it was time to broach the topic of the evening's visit.

"I need you to do something for me," he spoke casually, but was instantly aware as Grace paused, a forkful of curried chicken poised above her plate.

"I knew it," she sighed, dropping the cutlery and pressing a damask napkin to her mouth. "I knew this was too good to be true," she added, taking a restorative gulp of the chilled wine. "What now?"

Helping himself to some rice and several pieces of the steak boti, Mycroft chewed slowly.

"There is to be something of an event in a week's time," he said. "In Oxford. I want you to attend," he continued to eat the succulent spiced beef with every outward evidence of enjoyment.

"You want me to go to Oxford next week?" Grace leaned back in her seat, staring at him. "What is this event, and why me, specifically?"

Holding his fork carefully between finger and thumb, Mycroft lifted his eyes to hers. Grace's clear grey gaze held neither fear nor anger; just the light of wariness.

He could hardly blame her. He lifted his eyebrows and looked apologetic.

"There is to be a ... celebration, of sorts," he spoke very carefully, aware that this was another of those sensitive moments where things could go awry. "I want you to go to a reunion weekend at Balliol College in Oxford."

Grace looked away. Saying nothing, she reached for her glass and took another gulp. "You are aware of the date?" she asked, knowing already that she needn't have bothered. Of course he was aware of the date.

It was exactly two years ago to the week that they had both driven up to Cambridge for her own alumni reunion at Clare College. _To the very week._ Exactly two years ago since she had reached an unanticipated but insanely powerful connection with him; two years since they had spent exactly one amazing weekend together. Two years ago, _to the week_, that he had walked away from her on the moonlit banks of the River Thames, leaving the fractured ruins of her heart behind him.

Mycroft examined the rice on his plate, prodding it with the tines of his fork. "I am aware," he sounded uncomfortable. "But the timing of the event was not of my choosing," he looked up at her again. "Yet it is critical that you attend."

Grace folded her arms and looked unconvinced. "Try me with an explanation."

Mycroft took a deep breath and sat back in his seat. "Paul Wu will be attending and I need to have someone close to him, someone who'll attract no undue surprise; someone who'll have an excuse to stay beside the man."

"Why?" Grace was still unsure. If Mycroft was who he said he was, then he could arrange to have a dozen of the best operatives in Britain at the Oxford bash. _Two_ dozen. He didn't need her to be there. There had to be another explanation. "And try telling me the _real_ story this time."

Holding her eyes with his own, Mycroft blinked slowly. "I have reason to believe that an abduction is being planned at Oxford during the party," he said, finally. "Several of the individuals involved in your current secondment project will be attending, all of whom, bar one, have already been allocated a protective security detail, an arrangement that has taken months to set in place so that not one thing would seem out of place and potentially alert the kidnappers, if such there are. The function of each of these highly discreet groups is to surveil and guard one individual. Paul Wu was not supposed to be in the secondment, nor was he expected at the Oxford reunion, yet strangely, he is involved in both," pausing, Mycroft sipped champagne. "At such short notice, I can't find anyone to accompany the man, other than his own mother, who would avoid unnatural attention," he added, putting his glass back down on the table. "And given Wu's known aversion to his _mama_, I suspect that arranging to have her as his escort would cause more eyebrows to rise than anything else. And yet you," he leaned forward, fixing her with a steady blue stare. "Have already been seen singling Paul Wu out as a preferred companion and would therefore cause no questions to be asked to accompany him, whatsoever."

"But the only reason I paid Paul more than a basic polite attention in the first place is because you asked me to watch him," Grace protested, frowning, feeling more than a little put out. It was vastly unfair for him to ask her to do anything like this at all, especially since ...

"I realise the timing of the event may not be the best," Mycroft acknowledged, looking awkwardly down at his plate. "But the universities themselves set the calendar for these extravagances, and not even I would dare tempt the fate of the Gods by demanding Oxford change its rituals."

Grace frowned and sighed heavily. She didn't want to do this, didn't want any _part_ of doing this. She looked up into a pair of questioning and unguarded blue eyes and saw ... and saw ...

The expression on his face was little short of entreating.

A rapid and extrapolating heat swarmed through her belly, spreading outwards to her extremities in an instant. So fierce and rushed was the sensation that she almost gasped from the shock of it. In a moment, Grace felt the reawakening flame of something she had last experienced on the banks of London's river.

No. _She did not want this_. She could not handle _this_ a second time!

"I can't ..." she shook her head. "You ask too much of me."

"Grace," Mycroft's fingers slid across the smooth table top, stopping millimetres short of her hand. "Whatever you might think of me, or ... feel about me," he paused again, hunting for the right words. "You must know I would never knowingly risk your physical welfare or your safety," he said. "You do know that?"

She nodded, dumbly, suddenly unsure of what name to give the overwhelming emotion rushing through her veins. It was almost panic, she realised; but was she panicking because of what had already happened, or because of what might yet come?

"I know I have no right at all to expect it, but I need you to trust me one last time, Grace," Mycroft's words were so soft as to be barely audible. "I need you to do this one last thing."

"You have no right ..." Grace felt her throat close as emotion stalled her ability to speak.

"I have no right, yet I am asking," Mycroft allowed the very tip of one index finger to touch the knuckle of her left hand. A cold flame burned through him at the point of contact.

Grace closed her eyes. There was no way she was going to do this; not a second time. Not after he ... she shook her head again, preparing an absolute and unambiguous refusal.

"Very well," she husked, hardly believing her own voice. What was she doing? "But I want something from you in return."

"Name it," Mycroft looked up abruptly. If it was in his power, she would have whatever it was she desired that very night.

Taking a slow, deep breath, Grace linked her fingers on the table top. "Someone I don't know has been sending me flowers, both here to my apartment and at the MoD as well," she said, lifting her eyes to his. "I want to know who it is, and I want you to find out for me."

He didn't even pause. "Of course," Mycroft nodded. "It shouldn't be too difficult to track such a thing down. Were they delivered from a local florist?" There was not a hint of hesitancy in his voice.  
"I don't know where they come from," Grace sounded dubious. "They are lovely things, but it's starting to make me uneasy and I want to know who's responsible. Anthony Kell has also offered to investigate the situation for me," she added. "But I don't know how good he is or if he were even being serious."

"Has he now?" At the idea of the other Alpha becoming involved in Grace's private life, the warm sensation inside him changed to an entirely different emotion. A sudden combative response churned up from deep inside; a spiral of hot acid at the idea that another man, another _Alpha_, might be ready to take on the role of her supporter and protector. Of her _mate_.

The hairs on the back of his hands began to prickle in an instinctive response to his brain's reaction. He carefully pulled his arms out of sight, though the internal disquiet was not so easily quashed.

"I will investigate the unknown flower deliveries for you. I would expect to have some information for you fairly shortly," Mycroft's face was unrevealing. "There is no need for you to seek Kell's assistance, I assure you," he added. "MI6 are best left to their overseas adventures."

"Sir Anthony has been very thoughtful these last couple of days," Grace continued, not noticing that the tension in the line of Mycroft's jaw was steadily increasing. "He seems to be a very nice man."

"A very nice man, indeed," the elder Holmes suddenly aware now of a tightness inside his chest that seemed to be compromising his breathing. His pulse was also elevated. He managed not to snarl the words, but it was something of an act of will.

"In that case, I'll go to Oxford for you and keep a watch over Paul Wu," Grace said, slowly. "Though I don't know what you expect me to do if anything happens; I'm no good at self-defence, or anything."

"As long as people are watching you with him, they won't be watching _my_ staff who will also be watching you _and_ Mr Wu," he said. "And they are _very_ good at self-defence indeed." He paused. "Did you like the roses?" he asked suddenly.

"The roses have been beautiful," Grace nodded, relieved to have a different topic to discuss. "Lovely things, but there were too many of them and I've had to send the bulk to St Thomas's," she added. "There's the latest batch," she pointed across to the bench top on the other side of the sink where a tall cut-crystal vase held the day's harvest of tall, red roses. "The perfume is quite sublime."

"As long as the present wasn't upsetting for you, despite their unknown origins," he murmured. "It wouldn't do to have you upset."

Grace smiled. "These roses could never upset me," she said, standing and walking across to the countertop. Cupping a gentle palm around the back of one particularly robust specimen, she inhaled deeply. "Quite lovely," she stepped back.

Once again, Mycroft felt an inexplicable sensation billowing inside him ... really; this was not the way one expected one's innards to behave.

"As long as you can tell me who's sending them, then we have a deal," she said, meeting his stare.

He was unblushing. "I will tell you who's sending them," he nodded. "Time to go, I believe," he added, standing.

"Thank you for dinner," Grace wondered why the awareness that he wanted to leave had given rise to a strange want for him to stay. It must be because of the uncomfortable history he'd stirred up; perhaps it was better to have him here, no matter how painful the situation might be, than be alone with her memories.

And he was suddenly so very close, wasn't he? Why was he so close? Grace looked up into the dark blue eyes she knew so very well and felt her breath leave her once again.

_Such foolishness_, she thought. This sort of thing would have to stop. Directly in front of her now, it was almost as if he was swaying, but that was clearly not the case. Blinking, Grace stepped away and walked through the apartment towards her front door.

Following her out and wishing her a pleasant evening, Mycroft left the apartment without another word or look.

It was only later, as she was rinsing the plates before stacking the dishwasher, that Grace wondered how Mycroft had known the anonymous flowers she'd been sent were roses.

###

"As I suspected," Sherlock checked the last series of numbers on the police-lab's print-out analysis of the mud from the airport motel car park. It confirmed his own investigations. "Coniferous and deciduous materials, combined with decayed particles of bluestone and green slate," he muttered, pursing his mouth. "Now why would a German acrobat come to London in order to leave a threatening message for a family member, only to vanish in a car which had clearly been recently driven in an area woodland some significant distance from the city?" he asked, pensively. "Why would he do that, John?"

Putting his mug of tea down on the table, the blonde man considered. "Been on holiday while he was here?" he suggested. "Maybe he brought the wreath from a long distance away so that it couldn't be traced? Or perhaps he had other jobs to do while he was here, the London end being one of the last things on his list? Maybe the London house wasn't his only port of call?"

"According to Lestrade's people, there's been no sign of a Jaysan Vallenda at any of the airports or cross-channel departure points," the younger Holmes scowled. "Which suggests that either he's still in Britain, or he has a second passport ... though I don't think that's the case."

"If the guy's threatening to off his relatives for some transgression or other, then he actually might have more than one passport, mightn't he?" John looked up. "What other alternatives are there?"

"If Jaysan Vallenda came here simply to break into his cousin's house and leave the wreath, he could have done that in a single day; been here and back to Germany within twelve hours, easily. But according to the motel manager, he's been here for more than three weeks, and he left his room cleaner that when he arrived; further, his car has been off-road in some very interesting terrain, and he's not yet left the country by any of the normal means. No John," Sherlock shook his head, "there's something odd happening here and our mysterious acrobat is a key player."

"Then we need to find out where Vallenda hired the car ... something foreign, wasn't it?"

"Japanese; light blue sedan," Sherlock nodded absently. "Which could be almost anything. I asked our friendly inspector if he could have someone check the local car-rentals around Gatwick as there are twenty-seven vehicle-hire yards in the vicinity and almost all of them have some Japanese-badged vehicles in their respective fleets."

"Then we wait for Lestrade?"

"We wait," Sherlock scowled again, turning his attention once more to the computer printout.

###

As he left Grace's apartment, Mycroft was rather pleased at the impassive expression he managed to keep in place as he headed for the top of the stairs.

It was only when he was completely out of view from her now-closed doorway that he exhaled a slow, deep breath, holding onto the curved banner rail with his left hand to steady himself. His heart was thunderous and his palms felt moist.

He had almost given the game away. He had come so close to throwing caution to the wind and simply leaning in to claim her mouth in a kiss that might have been worth the loss of everything; his plan, his equilibrium, his sanity. It had been _so_ close.

And now he was in the difficult position of having promised to locate her anonymous sender-of-flowers, and there were several ways he could handle this little game. He could simply ignore it, _stall_; it wouldn't be long now before such pretence was moot, in any case. He could make a show of a minor investigation, but he thought that Grace would find such theatrics false and unbecoming, which was entirely true, of course. Or he could come clean, something he had come perilously close to doing this evening, pulling back from the brink at the very last second before he ruined his own plan through an unusual impetuosity.

Wiping a hand across his brow, Mycroft sighed. Could he do this? Was he man enough to follow his plan through to the bitter end?

Walking softly down the central tread of carpet that dampened the sound of footsteps on the old wooden stairs, he headed to the front entrance of the building and out into the darkening evening.

###

Most of the following week passed in much the same manic way as the days before, even though the new assistants were gainfully involved in clarifying the potential elements of the new super-archive. Conversations were being had at every hour, involving two or sometimes several of the senior archivists; sometimes at a corner table in the great room, sometimes over a coffee in the place that had now become the research hub for what had become a massive project. Sometimes the conversations were via satellite, teleconference, virtual conference. There was always talking and more talking.

Though this immersion in the work was exhilarating, it was also exhausting. Since the constant level of adrenalin rush kept the excitement high, their imaginations were constantly firing and it was one brainwave after the next. It was amazing. Until it came, of course, to a halt at the end of the day, when everyone just seemed to crash. And each day now was getting harder and harder to begin again. Everyone, it seemed, was running on reserve energy, and even that was rapidly depleting.

So when Sir Anthony summoned the five principle delegates to a meeting, he was unsurprised to see a bone-deep tiredness mirrored on every face. Even David Abrams was silent, and had been less than scintillating for several days now.

"You have all done sterling work since we started this project, nearly two weeks ago," he began. "And the amount of information you have each contributed individually to this unique assignment has already started to pay dividends in that the initial shape and function of _Omni_ is already in the hands of the system architects," he added. "This is incredible work over an _incredibly_ short time, and it is plain to see the toll it has taken on your energy and performance," he paused, a light smile curving the corner of his mouth. "So it is my great pleasure to invite the five of you, and a partner, if you wish, to be my guests at Oxford this weekend where there is to be a dinner and celebration at Balloil College, my _Alma mater_, at which I am to receive some nonsense of an award, the rationale of which is to keep everyone happy and to make sure Cambridge doesn't have more stars in the heavens than we do," he laughed politically. "I do hope you will all agree to accompany me; accommodation and transport has been arranged for everyone, and I think I can promise that you would have a most enjoyable time. Whatever happens," he added. "I think we all need to step back a little now and take a break from the grunt work that's taken place since this project's inception. Perhaps after the weekend in Oxford, it might be sensible to review everyone's level of active involvement? I don't wish to have your respective organisations hounding me for running each of you into the ground, and sending you home as shadows of your former selves."

Having already been informed several days before about the Oxford do, Grace wasn't overly excited by the news, but she managed a surprised smile. Everyone it seemed, had at least one guest they'd like to bring. Everyone except her and Paul Wu.

"Looks like you and I are going to be each other's plus one," she smiled at Paul's raised eyebrows. "Unless you want to bring your mother?"

Unable to keep a straight face at the suddenly horrified rictus on her new friend's features, Grace patted him on the arm. "Never mind," she said. "You might get to meet some lovely bibliophiles up there who enjoy hanging out with secretive men between digging in desert caves for ancient artefacts."

"And who might you find, Grace?" Paul Wu looked at her speculatively. They had grown to know each other pretty well over that last ten, frenzied days, and he felt able to broach the topic. "Who are you waiting for?" he asked again. "A woman such as yourself can't be short of potential suitors, so lack of opportunity isn't the issue," Paul paused, his smile faintly speculative. "So what is it? Waiting for Mr Perfect, is that it?" He smiled for real. "Sounds a bit like me," he added, rubbing his nose, amused.

Grace had no intention of getting into a discussion of her love-life in such company as this; the others would likely leap on the smallest of confessions and then she'd never hear the end of it. She'd not even told any of them about the roses and wine.

Luxuriant, magnificent _delicious_ red roses that were still appearing daily outside her front door accompanied intermittently with wonderful bottles of champagne, none of which she'd yet opened. She had tried contacting the body corporate about building security; ensured the door's automatic locking mechanism was working properly; even thought about installing her own little door-camera, but nobody had seen anything, none of the security cameras had recorded anything, nobody knew anything about anything. If only she could find out who was trying to get her attention; there was something achingly romantic about the whole thing. Whoever it was sending her these gifts was nothing less than determined. Nor had Mycroft been in touch since their impromptu dinner of the previous Friday. Perhaps he wasn't bothered by the situation either, although she was a little surprised he hadn't demanded an update on Paul's activities since that meeting.

Grace sighed. Maybe getting away to Oxford for a couple of days might be exactly what she needed to do. She wondered what the rose-sender would do when they realised she wasn't at home.

And instead of a drive up to Oxford, no matter how brief, all of them were asked to bring themselves and their guests and luggage down to the City Airport at precisely five o'clock in the afternoon, where a small, chartered jet would be waiting to fly them all to Oxford airport, a total flight time of around twenty minutes. There was transport laid on to Balloil College, where private rooms had been arranged for each of them. The event's first major dinner and ball began at seven, precisely.

Everyone was there, including, Grace noticed, Sir Anthony's own personal guest, a rather attractive woman in her late forties, with dark, honey-coloured hair and a warm smile. The rumour that Kell liked blondes was not simply a rumour.

Yet despite her relief at getting out of the MoD for a few days, even if it was only to keep an eye on Paul Wu, the memories of Cambridge kept resurfacing with increasing clarity. There was no way she could put that previous adventure out of her mind; the horrifying situation that she and Mycroft had found themselves in as they chased down the solid gold icon, as they were eventually caught ... But no matter how much she tried to focus her thinking elsewhere, Grace found her mind wandering back to the more pleasant moments, things she had tried very hard not to think about at all in the subsequent two years.

The first time he'd wrapped his arms around her. It had all been pretence then, but it had been so easy to pretend with him. The first time he'd kissed her, how everything inside her had blazed at his touch. How he'd warmed her with his own heat that night she was too cold to sleep.

Grace felt her heart ache again at the loss, even though the distance between that time and now was too wide to mourn any more. If only ...

_No_; she would stop feeling sorry for the past and start focusing on the here-and-now. She smiled brightly and looked out through the small round window in the plane. This was not something she did every day and it was exciting and spontaneous and different, all the things she usually loved to do.

_Oxford, here I come._

###

"But _green_ slate ..." Sherlock paused, looking between the two of them as if his meaning was abundantly clear. "You see my point?"

"Actually, no," Greg folded his arms and leaned back against the sink. "Not a bloody clue."

"Glad it's not just me, then," John also folded his arms and looked ready to be impressed.

Sherlock heaved a huge sigh and threw them both a jaded look. He headed over to the large map of Britain pinned to the back of the door, stabbing a hard finger in four places: Cumbria, Wales, Scotland, Cornwall.

"There are relatively few places in the British Isles where Jaysan Vallenda could have driven his hire-car in order to collect the kind of mud we found outside his room at the motel," Sherlock turned back to stare at the map. "He had to have been in one of these key areas," he waved his index finger appropriately. "But the question, of course," the younger Holmes looked pleased at the idea of a puzzle. "Is _why?_"

Pressing two fingers against his lower lip, Sherlock paced the floor. "Why would Jaysan Vallenda come all the way from Frankfurt, break into his cousin's house only to leave a threatening message, and then drive off into the wilds? It makes no sense ... unless ..." he stopped, smiling. Pleased. "Unless the London job was only something he thought to do on the side, and the _real_ reason he came to Britain was something to do with this ..." again, he waved a finger over the four key sites.

John frowned. "But what on earth would he come all the way over here to do something that involved him driving around in any of those places?"

"And, last time I looked, driving around the wilds of Scotland wasn't actually against the law," Lestrade shrugged, looking helpful.

"There's something very strange here," Sherlock turned back to stare at the map. "Jaysan Vallenda has based himself for three weeks in an inconspicuous London motel, but during that time has driven at least once into some very remote territory. He returned to deliver a warning and has now vanished, but has not yet left these shores," he chewed his bottom lip. "I suspect he's not yet completed his task here, whatever it might be," the younger Holmes sounded thoughtful. "Something that required at least one visit and possibly more to somewhere remote and off the usual radar."

"Off-radar?" John stared at the four spots on the map. "Why so?"

"The amount of mud that was left in the parking-slot, John," Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. "For that much mud to be left even after the car had been driven at least a couple of hundred miles on the motorway, argues that there was a considerable amount of it on the tyres to begin with, or that the mud came from more than one trip."

"And why these specific places, then?" It was Lestrade's turn to stare at the map.

"Largest known deposits of different kinds of slate, and specifically _green_ slate," Sherlock nodded. "And not much else; these areas are either in national parks or the back of beyond. Speaking of which," he paused, fixing Greg with a different kind of stare. "What happened after your people tracked down the car-rental company?"

"Oh, yeah," Greg nodded, lost in thought for a moment. "We found out where he'd leased the car, a recent model Toyota. We even had the plates …"

"_Had_ the plates?" Sherlock looked at him sharply. "_Had?_"

"Yes, Sherlock; _had_ the plates," Greg looked vexed. "Road-cameras were even able to track the thing heading west out of London on the M40 towards RAF Northolt, but after it pulled off-road in a near-by park … we lost it."

"_Lost?_"

"Is there an echo in here, or something?" Lestrade widened his eyes. "Yes. We _lost_ the car. Plenty of light blue Toyotas on the road, but none with the same plates."

"Suggesting the car is still in the park, or Vallenda changed the plates."

"And he's not in the park," Greg shook his head. "I had it checked."

"Curiouser and curiouser," Sherlock pursed his mouth. "Then it very much looks as though our German visitor is up to no good whatsoever."

###

Shortly before six, their party was met at Oxford's Kidlington Airport, just north of the city, by several large cars. In a brief space of time, they were driven smoothly into town and up the very grand main drive of Balliol College shortly thereafter. The sun was setting on the magnificent yellow sandstone of the main buildings as the cars pulled gently to a halt.

A group of dark-jacketed young men came to assist them with their luggage as each member of Sir Anthony's party was ticked off a list and handed a heavy brass key.

"We all have rooms in the main residential area at Jowett Walk," Kell waved them all forward. "It's a few minutes away from the main assembly building. I suggest we meet back at the Great Hall at seven, shall we?"

"Shall we meet up outside the hall?" Paul Wu stared around him. "I've never been here before and I'd like a bit of a look around."

"And I'd like to have a cup of tea before I get changed," Grace nodded, willing to accommodate him. She wanted a little time to herself before she started to pretend to be happy. "But we don't have a great deal of time before dinner, do we?"

Wu wrinkled his nose. "Probably not," he admitted. "And I really do need to clean up before I get into my monkey suit."

Laughing, Grace prodded his shoulder. "Yes indeed. First appearances are crucial and you never know who might be watching you," she added. "Maybe even a future Madam Wu ..?"

Shaking his head at her silliness, Paul followed his luggage as Grace held back, looking around the marvellously ancient buildings. It was hard to believe they were nearly a thousand years old. Breathing deeply of the golden afternoon, she headed off into the direction of the others, the map she'd been handed with her key showing exactly where she was to go.

The far more modern accommodation was literally around the corner from the main college building and everyone had already entered by the time she walked into the entrance. Following the directions on her little map, Grace found herself standing in front of a plain wooden door bearing the same number as the key in her hand.

Entering, her first impression was one of some disappointment; it was entirely modern and fairly soulless as far as rooms went; more like an average hotel than part of one of the oldest universities in the world. But at least the place smelled nice and there was an _ensuite_, and the weekend wasn't costing her anything, so perhaps she shouldn't be so …

Her attention was drawn to her suitcase sitting on the small table at the foot of the bed. Or not exactly on the suitcase itself, but the long black dress-bag that lay draped over the corner of the bed right behind the case.

Someone had left another woman's evening clothes in here by mistake; the bag was none of hers. Knowing that the bag's real owner was probably a little concerned about its whereabouts, Grace walked quickly over to see if there was a visible name tag.

The white card on top made her stop short, her heart suddenly in her throat.

_Thinking of you_.

Her eyes darted around, finding the source of the pleasant smell. A large crystal vase of red roses sat on the wide windowsill, their perfume pervasive and heavy.

Unsure whether to be deeply alarmed or outrageously annoyed that anyone had the gall to invade her privacy like this; she stood at the side of the bed, open-mouthed and bewildered.

…And something in the back of her mind flickered into life, waving for attention. Something that was vaguely familiar about this situation, as if she'd seen something like this before …

And of course, she realised, with a prickling sensation, _she had_.

At Cambridge, two years ago.

When she and Mycroft had walked into the bedroom of the Master's chambers, only to be met by the huge epic saga of a carved bed.

And laid out, across the bed in exactly the same way, had been a long black dress-bag containing a dark blue gown that had hung untouched ever since, at the back of her wardrobe.

Leaning closer, Grace looked down at the long flat dress-case.

It looked awfully familiar, but then, all dress-cases were the same, really, weren't they?

She should have a look inside, if only to assure herself that there was nothing untoward within its covers. Finding the tab of the long side-zip, she pulled the thing carefully open, her heart beginning to pound afresh as the contents came into view.

A smoky-dark green silk dress, with sea-green and dark blue satin edging; a couture gown that screamed _Versace_. Grace felt her jaw drop once again as she lifted the delicate thing out from its protective wrappings. Of course, it was in her size …

Laying the dress down on the bed, she lifted up the lower portion of the case, wondering if … and yes; she wasn't wrong.

The lower section held additional surprises, just as the dress-case had two years before in Cambridge. Unzipping the smaller section, Grace found a shoebox and a smaller, flatter case.

The shoes were, as she was now expecting, a perfect complement to the gown; blue-green satin courts.

She held the much smaller box on the palm of her hand. Dare she open it?

An odd warmth building inside her, Grace felt a strange smile curving her mouth. There was only one person she knew who might do this, who had, in fact, done this before.

But it couldn't possibly be him, _it couldn't_.

Grace opened the flat little box, and realised, without any doubt, that it was.

_Emeralds_. A heavy circlet of thick gold intertwined with perfectly cut, square brilliant emeralds. Two smaller stones for her ears and a lesser circlet for her wrist. The set of jewels had to have an astronomical value. As did the gown: Grace had no doubt it was a bespoke piece. Trying to regain her calm, she stepped back and inhaled slowly. There had to be some sense to be made out of the situation.

Only Mycroft could have arranged all this; only he would have the contacts to do all of this without observation. Only he would be willing to expend such a massive sum … he had done it before.

But why? Why would he … Grace remembered the little white card. It was the same as all the others.

_The cards_. The cards with the roses.

_The roses_; all of them. Every bouquet for the last two weeks. The cake, the _champagne_.

_Everything_ …

But he'd made no indication that he was interested, had he?

The meals, the bath-house; the research assistance … She paused her wild train of thought for a moment.

Had Mycroft arranged the trip up to Oxford? Her skin prickled even more at the thought that he might also have arranged the entire research secondment. Just how deep did this thing go?

And more importantly, what was she prepared to do about it? Did she want whatever it was that this whole scenario now suggested it might be offering?

The only reason Mycroft would have gone to such lengths, would have done all of this, was to ensure he had her complete attention. And why would he want her attention? Why would he want her to think well of him?

_ Why had he asked for her forgiveness?_

Was this his way of saying he'd made a mistake? Did he want to try again?

_ Did she?_

The way her heart hammered at the idea took her by surprise. Did she want him?

Grace looked down at the fabulous gown and knew with an uncompromising certainty exactly what she was about to do.

Heading into the bathroom, she took a meticulous shower, washing her hair again, even though there was no real need. She wanted to feel perfect.

Taking extra care to prepare herself, Grace spent longer over the application of her makeup than usual; careful with her perfume, styling her hair into soft waves.

Sliding into the wonderful piece of art that was the dress, the wide straps wrapped naturally over the curved points of her shoulders, crossing snugly across her front and down into a floor-length drape. The necklace accentuated the deep-V of the neckline, while both the bracelet and the earrings lent her skin a faint shimmer.

Daring to look in the full-length mirror, Grace saw a stranger. A strange blonde woman who seemed almost ethereal in the darkening evening, her jewels glinting in the lamplight, her eyes shining.

Whatever else happened this evening, it wouldn't fail because she lacked the courage to try, she promised herself.

Slipping her feet into the, of course, perfectly-fitting shoes, Grace picked up a small evening bag and nothing else. The night was going to be too warm to require a coat, or even a wrap. Nor did she need or want one; her whole body was floating in anticipation.

Slipping her room key into the bag, she left the room, retracing her steps back to the main building of Balliol College.

Great hanging lanterns edged the drive now, and the main doors of the college entrance had been flung wide open, allowing bright light to shine out into the gravelled driveway. People were walking up to the doors; singly, in pairs and small groups.

She should wait here; she had told Paul she would wait for him here.

Instead, she walked straight through, following the increasing sound of an orchestra in the middle-distance. Following the flow of people, Grace had no eyes for the magnificent paintings that surrounded her, or even the fabulous and ancient architecture.

She had to see if she was right. She had to see if he …

The massive double-doors of the Great Hall were before her, and she jerked to a halt, suddenly terrified that she might be wrong in all her conjectures. The music inside the room swelled as violins took the night into a romantically slow and sad waltz.

Grace walked through the doors … and waited, not able to breathe.

"I believe this is my dance?"

Mere feet away, Mycroft Holmes stood in immaculate black evening clothes, his eyes burning in the light of a thousand candles.

In his fingers was a single, dark red rose.


	5. Chapter 5 Conciliation

**Conciliation**

_It Begins – First Dance – On the BBC – The Getaway – Next of Kin – Silver Linings – Anyone and Everything – The Mistake – Reisepass – Ultimatum._

#

#

Jaysan Vallenda checked his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes. Everything was in place; he had triple-checked every part of tonight's activities; the location, the buildings, the people. Everything and everyone were in their precise places. They needed only the signal to go and he was waiting in the car for exactly that.

The mobile phone in his pocket buzzed into life. Taking a sharp breath, he thumbed the thing open. "Yes?"

The calming voice of Mr Roberts sounded soft down the line. "Is everything as planned?"

"Yes."

"Are you in place?"

"Yes."

"Are the others ready?"

"Yes, everyone is ready."

"Excellent," Mr Roberts sounded pleased. "Then there's nothing left to wait for, is there?"

"Nothing at all, sir," Jaysan felt a grin shape his face. "Ready when you are."

"Then, shall we go?"

"We shall, Mr Roberts. See you shortly."

Ending the call, Jaysan checked to see he had left nothing else in the car before starting it up and driving a matter of yards along George Street until he came to the junction of Broad and Cornmarket Streets. Disregarding the double-yellow lines forbidding any kind of parking, he pulled in to the corner and stopped the car. There were a couple of irritated beeps from car-horns as people manoeuvred around him, but he ignored them. Besides, it was dark now; they couldn't get a good look at him if they tried. Taking care not to get himself run down, he opened the driver's door and tossed the phone he'd just used down onto the driver's seat. Thinking for another moment, he pulled a passport from an inner pocket and threw that in too. There would be no need to use that one again after tonight.

He walked away, his fingers caressing the first of two small buttons on the smooth piece of technology in his hand. When he'd crossed the road and was a good fifty-feet away, he checked quickly to ensure there was nobody else too close, before flicking open the cover of the first button, which he pressed once.

The Toyota exploded in a huge and noisy fireball, chunks of aluminium sheeting, bits of twisted metal and even one of the wheels shooting across the road. Several nearby shop windows disintegrated from the concussion of the explosion. Bright yellow and red flames leaped high in the dark of the evening. The junction was effectively blocked.

Brushing down the shoulders of his dinner jacket and adjusting the knot of his black bow tie, Jason Redcar walked on, unconcerned and unhindered. The rest of his life began tonight.

Balliol College was less than a hundred yards ahead. As the sound of fire engines began to echo through the Oxford night, Jason pressed the second button, and the heavy detonation and sudden flash of light announced a second explosion, this time at the junction of Broad and Holywell Streets, on the far side of the college. The first stage of the plan had gone perfectly. Neither the police nor anyone else would be able to get through to the main college gates by car for at least twenty minutes, by which time, everything would be over.

###

The single-minded _hungry_ expression on his face removed what little remained of Grace's higher reasoning. "It's _you_ ..." she breathed, even though she had already worked out her mysterious admirer could only be him, it was still a shock to be proven correct.

A guarded smile flickering across his face, Mycroft stepped closer, his blue eyes searching, testing her mood. Slowly offering up the rose, his fingers touched hers with great gentleness as he brought the back of her right hand to his lips. "You look beautiful," his smile grew slightly less constrained though his posture remained tense. "I see you found my gifts."

That she had consented to wear the gown and the jewels after she had realised who had sent them boded well, he felt ... and she _had_ to have made the connection to even consider wearing them. Now he had to capitalise on the gains he'd made thus far.

Taking the rose without thought and allowing his fingertips to brush hers, Grace smiled too, but her uncertain gaze never left his face, as she hunted for any indication of insincerity. If he was doing this to fix some problem or other and she was simply an easy means to an end, she needed to know now, before ... before she ...

"No," still holding her hand, he shook his head and pulled her fractionally closer. The question was written clear all over her face. "There is nothing you need fear from me," his voice was soft but his words were granite. "There is no game-playing here."

"Then what are you doing?" Grace couldn't help the frown that lined her forehead. "You left _me_, remember? _You_ were the one who decided we were nothing and pushed me away."

"And I was _wrong_," Mycroft closed his eyes briefly as he brought her even closer; away from the stream of people moving in and out of the enormous room. "I have come to realise it may be one of the biggest mistakes I ever made."

"Are you telling me the truth?" Grace still searched his face, his eyes. "I ... I don't think I could deal with that sort of situation twice, you see," her voice was uncomfortably wobbly. "I don't think I could manage if you broke my heart twice."

"Oh, _God_, Grace ... I'm so_ sorry_," the groan in his voice was wrenched from deep inside as his arms found their slow way around her, closing the rest of the gap between them. He pressed his face against the side of her head, breathing in the achingly remembered scent of citrus. Something inside him eased a little. "I did it with the best of good intentions," he murmured against the softness of her hair. "Please let me show you how much I want this ... how much I want to prove this is real."

"You want another chance to be with me," she said slowly, tasting the words as she leaned away so she could see his eyes again, still not convinced. "You really want to try and see if we ... if we could have a ..."

"_Yes_. Grace, my lovely, _lovely_ Grace. Let me show you how much I want another chance." She had no reason to believe him, Mycroft knew, or trust him, come to that, but he hoped she would. He so very much needed her to give him one last opportunity to show her how wrong he had been two years ago.

Her head was spinning and her brain had blanked again. All she could think of was the feeling of his arms around her and the inner warmth every time his eyes held her own.

But even if he were sincere and honest; even if there was no game-playing, did she really want this? Grace knew she had to decide for herself now, not just because _he_ wanted this. Did she want Mycroft Holmes, with all that would entail? He had told her who and what he was; and God knows he had shown her what he was capable of doing, both good and bad. Still in his arms, she felt her thoughts tumble again and realised she couldn't make that sort of decision in one night.

"I need time to think," she murmured. "Don't ask me to give an answer to anything right now," she shook her head, questions and thoughts still scrambling around inside.

"Then dance with me," his words were nearly inaudible as he reached for her hand once more.

The small orchestra, arrayed at the far end of the great room on the raised dais, which usually held the High Table, was still playing the wonderful, poignant waltz and Grace followed without hesitation as he drew her into the middle of the floor and brought her close.

In silence, she slid her fingers into the warmth of his hand, permitting his long arm to skim lightly around her waist. She could feel the heat of his body through the fine silk of the dress; as if his skin were resting against her bare flesh. Her feet followed the cadence of a slow waltz but her pulse was pounding out a tarantella.

It was plain to see Grace wasn't convinced and Mycroft agonised momentarily that he had orchestrated this crucial meeting too hastily; that his desire for her, his _need_ for her had driven an agenda too rapid for success. Yet he had waited so long that even _his_ vaunted patience was on the brink of crumbling.

And no. He would _not_ permit himself to fall at this, the last major hurdle, no matter how long it took. Leading the woman he could no longer live easily without, he allowed himself the supreme luxury of wrapping an arm around her. The supple warmth of her body beneath his fingertips tempted him to seek more but he knew this entire _affair_ was balanced now on a knife-edge; he would not risk everything he had planned over so many months for a moment's gratification.

_Omega_ ... _be mine_. He held her close, the fabric of their clothes an insubstantial barrier between their bodies as blistering desire rose inside his chest once more. She must surely be able to hear the pounding of his heart.

When Grace rested her hand against the breast pocket of his dinner jacket, he clenched the muscles of his jaw as the impulse to crush her closer to him became almost intolerable. And, _oh_. How often he had longed to do this; how the thought of a simple touch like this had made his pulse race, as it was racing now. Mycroft took a deep and hopefully unnoticed breath. Calm was needed here, not mad passion, at least, that was the consensus of all the texts he'd so carefully digested over the last several weeks. Now that Grace knew he was responsible for sending the little tokens of affection, but more importantly, _why_ he had sent them, she would need to rationalise her own way through her response and he could not rush her.

Or so said the books.

With her in his arms, so warm, so soft and pliant, Mycroft felt some of his uncertainty begin to fade. That she was willingly here, despite everything that must be going through her mind by now, Grace hadn't stormed off; back to her room to pack and return to London.

She was still here. And in his arms.

Mycroft felt his head swim with her nearness; her perfume and the deeper, unique scent that had called his name for the better part of two years. Unrealised, his arm slid more firmly around her as he leaned closer and breathed her in.

_Omega_… _Omega mine._

Grace had no idea what her feet were doing. That neither she nor Mycroft had actively stumbled or crashed into any of the other couples on the dance floor was due either to incredibly good luck, or Mycroft was a far better dancer than she had imagined. She knew she was moving, somehow, but exactly how and for what purpose, she had no idea. Not even the sound of the orchestra made much of a dent in her awareness. All she knew was that she was in a very strange place in her head, and that a bizarre, hyper-awareness seemed to have descended over everything. Everything was heightened, the smooth feel of his jacket beneath her fingertips, the brush of the silk dress against her bare legs. The heaviness of the massed candles in the air around them, of the many people dressed and perfumed in their best clothes.

And she could smell _him_. So close, it would be nigh impossible to avoid; a rich, expensive fragrance above a darker, more animalistic scent. It felt like the most natural thing in the world for her to rest her head against his shoulder, feeling his arms enclose her more completely. Grace felt she could close her eyes now and simply drift like this for the rest of the night.

"Good to see you here, Holmes."

Yanking her back to a higher level of awareness, Grace recognised Sir Anthony Kell's voice. Lifting her head, she looked at him, a little dreamily as Mycroft held her fractionally closer to his chest. Like Mycroft, Kell was decked-out in perfect evening-wear. What was it about the Alpha males in these jobs that made them look so fundamentally wonderful in formal dress?

"And you, Sir Anthony," Mycroft was urbanity itself. "And yourself, Margaret," he nodded carefully at the lovely woman dancing with Kell; the same honey-blonde that Grace remembered from the airport. She too was wearing a stunning dress; a satin, woodsy-green brocade that lent a lambent brightness to her hair and pale blue eyes.

"And I see you have already met one of our rising stars," Sir Anthony smiled lightly at a bemused Grace. She blinked and smiled a little in return. "Do I need to advise Gerald to keep a closer watch over his people?"

"I believe there is little need to tell Gerald anything," Mycroft smiled ambiguously, raising an eyebrow just as he whirled Grace away on the rising swell of the violins. The last thing he intended to do tonight was talk shop with anyone, every second that Grace was so close was a second he planned to savour to the utmost.

"I still can't believe the lengths you've gone to," Grace looked up into his eyes again, a small frown between her brows. "All that work, all the arrangements you had to have made," she paused, her frown deepening. "Why on earth would you go to such hard work?"

Either she thought his efforts excessive in relation to the potential gain, or she still doubted his veracity. Neither alternative was acceptable and Mycroft found his breath gusting away at even the idea Grace might not agree to try again.

"You still don't understand," he looked down into her troubled gaze, the compelling nearness of her making his mouth go dry. It was absolutely imperative that she had to, at some point, say _yes_. He had to convince her, had to _show_ her …

But not in the middle of a dance floor.

Taking her hand that still rested upon his chest, he turned smoothly and made for the door, passing swiftly between two of the uniformed waiters who turned and watched them go; waving away the several security personnel who touched fingers to their ears as he steered Grace behind him on a clear trajectory out of the main hall. Knowing exactly where they needed to go in order to be free from overlookers, Mycroft walked swiftly and confidently away from the crowd and the music, deep into narrower and darker passageways suffused with the scent of ancient oak panels and books and the echo of undergraduate feet.

They came to a small, open hallway between two opposing doors, a mere widening of the passage, really, but it was private and quiet.

Turning Grace bodily until she faced him, he held her shoulders carefully with hands that he forced into stillness. She had to know he was utterly serious, that nothing of the last few weeks was any kind of a game. That he was deathly earnest.

For a moment, Mycroft wondered what the books would suggest he do in the present situation. Would their combined wisdom advise him to play everything cool and understated? To turn the rational card, citing his reasons and the structure of his overall plan? Perhaps to reiterate the genuine nature of his feelings and his absolute wish for her to consider him as a serious potential partner.

As her lover … her mate … her _Alpha_ … a sudden wave of heat rushed through him at an old mental image of her golden-and-white body in the dark bower of her bedroom, naked but for a storm-coloured silk sheet and willing and waiting … for _him._

"Damn the bloody books," he murmured, bringing her close to him in a single movement, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was more a barely-controlled explosion of desire and passion than of considered argument and persuasion.

He sighed into the kiss, engulfed by sensation as Grace first stiffened then thawed slowly into his embrace, her arms sliding up his back, her body suddenly boneless and without resistance as the kiss slowed and deepened. He held her tighter as he explored her mouth, his fingers curving around the angles of her shoulders, his body pressing closer, bending her backwards, a hand cradling the back of her head to hold her still as he took his time. It had been so long … he had wanted this for _so_ long …

_Omega_ … it was a heartfelt groan as Mycroft felt his body respond to the open invitation that was her growing participation in the kiss. He could not recall a time when he had been so desirous of anything before. Her body called to his with a siren song. It was all he could do to avoid pressing her hard against the wall and letting their desires take an instinctive course. There would be no resistance, he knew it.

But a small part of his remaining sanity told him _no_. Not yet. This was not how he wanted things to be between them. _Not yet_.

Grace had no idea what was happening until it had already happened. One minute they were dancing, and the next, his eyes had turned navy-dark, an expression of fierceness and inscrutable concentration focused his features as he clutched her hand and towed her behind him all the way out of the main hall and down along a series of narrowing corridors. It was only when the music faded to a faint accessory and general background ambiance that he stopped, turning to fix her with a look that caught at her breath. In the next second, she heard some muttered comment about books before she was in his arms and wrapped in a kiss of such heat and urgency that at first she felt more shock than anything else.

But something inside knew her mind better than she did, and she closed her eyes and relaxed, taking from him what she had desired for months, since she had first barged into him in the marbled hall of MI5's Millbank so many weeks before. She had tried to convince herself then that she hadn't wanted him back in her life, but it had all been denial; anything to stop herself confronting the fact that she had never stopped waiting for him since Cambridge. Grace felt herself dissolving like warm chocolate.

"_Alpha_," she breathed, sliding a hand around the nape of his neck, holding him to her as much as she was being held. "I thought you didn't want me any more …"

Disengaging himself from the kiss for a moment, Mycroft's face was ablaze with unconstrained emotion.

"You have no idea how much I …"

Whatever else he was about to say was left unsaid as unknown footsteps stamped close on the bare wooden floor and rough hands pulled her away. About to protest, to shout and demand an explanation, Grace saw one of the waiters they had passed on leaving the Great Hall, spray something in front of her face. There was an extended _hiss_ as a fine mist filled her mouth and nose with a sugary, choking smell. There was no air to breath, nor light to see …

In seconds, she crumpled to the floor, saved from a hard landing by the arms of a total stranger.

###

"And now for something just in," the vaguely Welsh tones of news anchor Huw Edwards graced the television screen for the BBC's ten o'clock news. "Reports have arrived in the last hour of a double explosion in the heart of Oxford. In what one witness described as 'two deliberate explosions', two cars have been destroyed between Balliol and Trinity Colleges on Broad Street, a central thoroughfare in the centre of the city. At this point, there does not appear to have been any casualties, though there has been many thousand pounds worth of physical damage to the immediate shops and local businesses. Over to Frances Bloomington for more details."

"Thank you, Huw," the younger, dark-haired woman nodded seriously. "Approximately three hours ago, a double explosion rocked the city centre of Oxford. Two parked cars, seemingly empty and possibly deliberately placed, exploded within seconds of one another, leaving little doubt that this was a premeditated act of violence."

"And do the police have any further information for us?" Edwards frowned slightly.

"Not as yet, Huw, nor will they be willing to share any great deal of detail until they're sure of what exactly happened. Fortunately, nobody seems to have been hurt, a real blessing given that there have been several college events taking place this evening, including an alumni reunion at Balliol," Frances half-turned so the camera focused briefly on the ancient buildings blazing with lights behind her, the echoes of sirens lingering in the dark of the night. "As you can hear, there is still a great deal of activity going on, with the fire service and police taking a very hands-on approach to this shocking and potentially lethal event. Back to you."

"Thank you, Frances," Edwards took a bit of a deep breath. "And now to recap this evening's major stories. The Prime Minister has reiterated that he …"

"Interesting," Sherlock said absently, frowning as he stared down at the screen of his mobile.

"Interesting why?" John, relaxing on the couch flicked through the channels, looking for either more news or a decent documentary to watch.

"Balliol is Mycroft's _Alma mater_," Sherlock sounded thoughtful. "I wonder …"

"Wonder what?" John turned to look at his tall friend. "Why are you sounding all … pond_ery?_"

"I'm just pondering, _John_," the younger Holmes raised his eyebrows towards the television. "If those explosions in Oxford might have anything to do with my brother; you know how dramatic he tends to be."

"You think Mycroft might have been kicking up his heels at some Oxford boys-club reunion party?" John couldn't help the grin that curved his mouth. The mere thought of the British Government behaving like a normal person at some posh bash with the cream of society couldn't help but make him smile. It was such an unlikely image.

"But if there were any problem, the police would be calling you, wouldn't they?" John turned back to the TV. "Didn't you say he'd got you down as his next-of-kin in order not to frighten your parents?"

"True," Sherlock still held his phone. "And if the explosions happened three hours ago, then there'd be plenty of time to have contacted me by now if there were such a need…"

He stopped short as the Nokia in his fingers began to ring.

###

The time he'd spent walking every single one of Oxford's back streets was now put to good use. By blocking off the front access to the college, the only way anyone could get in by car was via the one clear rear access road, and his men would have that one under constant observation until they were well away.

_Enroute_ to Balliol, Jason Redcar, née Jaysan Vallenda, received a text to his second phone, advising him that the target, accompanied by the blonde companion, had both been intercepted. This was somewhat ahead of plan, and Jason frowned a little. If the objective had been jeopardised through impatience ...

Ringing the number, he got through instantly.

"Talk to me," he said. "If there's been a fuck up ..."

"No fuck up. The targets left the main hall of their own decision and it was too good an opportunity to miss. You'd have done the same yourself."

"Explain."

"After they left the Grand Hall, we simply followed them until they stopped in a quiet spot for a bit of how's your father, and we nabbed 'em both," the man laughed quietly. "Really, how easy was that?"

Still wary at such unexpected good fortune, Jason ensured that each of his men, dressed as was he, in the dark-livery of waiters, were sure they had managed to collect the man and woman without witnesses. This was no time to start being worried about a video turning up on one of the social medial platforms before the evening was out.

But Redcar grinned a bit at his man's description of the event. If the couple had been planning a romantic interlude away from the rest of the crowd, they'd be disappointed. He grinned again. Life, at times, was indeed a bitch.

His colleague continued to explain that they had been momentarily concerned that the tall, dark-haired man and his female companion in the green dress might have been heading directly towards one of the many small external exits, the number of odd doors in this ancient heap were astronomical. Everywhere you turned, there was an unexpected little room or a half-height doorway or a massive old fireplace or something. Bizarre bloody place. But if the couple had decided to leave and return to their hotel or other accommodations ...

Jason nodded, understandingly. If the target and his female companion had managed to leave the building, the entire plan would have been shot. His man was correct; he would have done exactly the same thing.

And apparently, the knockout spray had worked _exactly_ according to plan, and it had been far easier to extract the two unconscious bodies than anyone had dreamed it might be. Mr Roberts was going to be very pleased indeed. Given that the couple were already so far away from the main crowd back in the big room, his men had simply taken advantage of one of the college's ample supply of external doors and carried both the target and his companion quietly out into the dark of the night and into one of the two waiting vans, carefully enscribed with the name of a local caterer who often looked after these fancy parties.

They were in the van, right now, waiting for him.

Jason's grin got wider as he turned his steps to walk around the exterior of the main college building, rather than entering and winding his way through the labyrinthine passageways and corridors of its ancient interior. Knowing his way around the grounds of the college as if he had lived there for years, it was a matter of minutes before he'd reached the dimly-lit car park filled with service vehicles.

There were two caterer's vans. Both had their doors closed. As he approached, the nearest one flickered the internal light on and off for a second. Cranking open the door, he swung himself up into the passenger seat, immediately looking back into the body of the van as a whole. The three men, still in their waiters costumes were ranged on the seats along the sides of the vehicle which on the floor between them lay the limp bodies of two people; a man in a black dinner suit and a woman in an expensive-looking green dress. Both of them had voluminous black cotton bags placed over their heads. Even if the knock-out spray wore off, they'd not be able to see anything. Or, more importantly, any_one_.

"Tie their hands," he instructed. "Just in case." Getting back onto his phone, Jason contacted the few remaining members of the team advising them that the plan had achieved success far earlier than anticipated, and that they could each leave according to the schedule of departures worked out earlier. Nobody at the party would notice any one of them had vanished.

After receiving confirmation that the active departure of the rest of the team was underway, Jason told the van driver to head out of the previously unlocked side gates and onto St Giles, a road that ran parallel to Balliol College grounds for some distance. Now that Broad Street was effective blocked out the front of the college, this road was the only other way in or out, and their van was the only moving vehicle in sight. It was a matter of minutes before they had joined Banbury Road, still undetected by any authority of any kind. The driver accelerated, knowing that in a minute or less, there would be a large roundabout taking them onto the A40. This would then take them to the M6 and they'd be free to change into their other vehicles waiting for them in an abandoned factory just outside of Banbury.

In another forty minutes, or less, they'd have left the van hidden in the darkest corner of the old building and be away in their replacement, non-descript Range Rovers. After that, it would be plain sailing all the way up to the cottage.

And then there'd be nothing standing in the way of the plan.

###

John watched as his friend's face turned carefully blank. He knew from terrible experience that the less expression there was on the surface, the deeper the problem went.

And right now, Sherlock's features looked as if they were made from white marble.

Whatever it was, it was bad.

Ending the almost silent and very one-sided phone conversation, the younger Holmes sat for a moment, unmoving and clearly deep in urgent thought.

"How bad, is it?" John wished, for the thousandth time, that he had the same perceptive powers as did his friend. It would be so advantageous right now not to prise the information out of him.

"The explosions at Oxford were almost directly outside Balliol College," Sherlock spoke carefully, enunciating every syllable. "The damage and fireballs of the two, near-simultaneous explosions effectively blocked all access by anyone into the college for more than thirty minutes, not that anyone felt any reason to attempt entry," he paused, inhaling slowly.

"And?" John realised the important stuff was yet to come. "_And?_"

"And because nobody thought to wonder if the explosions were a diversion for anything else, nobody noticed until the last thirty minutes that my brother has vanished from the scene. Apparently, he was to take part in some award ceremony for Sir Anthony Kell, Director of MI6 and also a Balliol alumni, but never appeared to fulfil his commitment. It's only been in the last few minutes that the powers-that-be have attempted to locate him, only to find that he's completely vanished. It is the considered opinion that foul play may have taken place."

"Yeah, but this _is_ Mycroft," John looked dubious. "He comes and goes very much as he pleases; we both know that. What would make anyone think foul play had been involved?"

Sherlock fixed his blond friend with a baleful stare. "Apparently he was dancing with Grace Chandler when they both left the great Hall in some haste," he said. "When Mycroft couldn't be reached on his mobile, something of a search party was mounted to ensure he hadn't gotten himself, and presumably, Doctor Chandler locked in some room or other. Chandler's evening bag was found in a distant corridor. There were signs of a struggle," the younger Holmes paused, frowning. "And a red rose on the floor."

John narrowed his eyes in thought. "You think Mycroft's been nabbed?"

"I very much fear, John," Sherlock looked resigned. "That my brother has managed to get both himself and Grace Chandler, kidnapped."

"In Oxford?" John sat up straighter, laying the television remote down with a faint sigh of resignation.

"In Oxford, in the middle of an alumni ball, with dozens of potential witnesses who might equally prove to be potential villains."

Nodding, John got to his feet slowly, stretching out his back after being sat down for a while. "And the police are still unaware of who Mycroft is and what he represents?" he walked softly across the floor, heading for his jacket, hanging on the wall.

Folding his arms and leaning back in his chair, Sherlock's mouth curved imperceptibly at one corner. "The local police will have no idea whatsoever, John, although I am sure that will be rectified quite quickly."

Sliding his arms into the sleeves of his coat, John patted his pockets to check he had his wallet and phone. "Would a gun be helpful, do you think?"

"I imagine a gun would always be helpful where my brother is concerned," Sherlock also stood, a deep sigh gusting from his chest as he too reached for his coat.

"Right then," John nodded mildly. "See you downstairs in a bit."

Nodding, the younger Holmes threw the dark jacket around him, walking out of the flat and down the stairs as he did.

By the time he'd opened the outer door to 221B, John was right behind him.

A familiar sleek black car waited silently at the pavement's edge.

Anthea stood, phone in one hand, tablet in the other. "I was about to call," she said, looking vaguely accusing.

"Of course you were," Sherlock took the tablet she held out for him and swiped the thing into life. There was a detailed map of Oxford city centre, as well as the floor-plans of Balliol College and its surrounds.

"The security detail is on the third page," she motioned with her chin. "But we should be on our way."

"Indeed," Sherlock waited for John to enter the car first. "It'll take us a good hour-and-a-half to get up there at this time of night."

Anthea turned and smiled faintly. "You still don't understand, do you?" she asked, tapping the glass partition.

Two minutes later, the Jaguar crossed into the Outer Circle Road at Regent's Park, heading onto a lesser-used track parallel to the boating lake.

In the dimly-lit evening, a small, black helicopter waited on a clear section of grass, its pilot waved once as the lights of the car crossed the curved windshield of the aircraft. There was the low starting whine of a powerful engine and the large rotor-bladed began a slow sweep of the sky.

"Fifteen minutes and you're landing right in the Quad," Anthea got out and waited at the car. "Half of the British security services are already up there, at the same do as him," she added, pausing momentarily before her expression turned savage. "Unsurprising since they all came from the same bloody college," she sounded cross. "Grace Chandler was up there too."

Sherlock shot her a probing glance. "Together?"

Raising her eyebrows and looking speculative, Anthea shrugged. "She was one of the reasons he was there," she said, noncommittally.

"Fifteen minutes?"

"Or less, if you'll stop wasting time," she added, gesturing at the readied aircraft.

###

Mycroft had learned the protocols of fieldwork many years before and had learned them well, no matter how loath he was to ever again embroil himself in its unreasonable coils. One of the things he recalled now, was the procedural sequence of things to do upon regaining consciousness in an unknown environment.

Was he mortally injured or in immediate danger of death?

Though everything about him was dark and muffled, an opaque fabric over his face, he was still able to move slightly, each tiny stretch and easing of his muscles telling him what he wanted to know. There was no life-threatening injury, no massive trauma or pain awaiting him. Was he in immediate danger? He sent out his _Alpha_ feelers as best he could. _Sound_; what could he hear? Nothing but silence. No car engines or traffic; no machinery, or voices or ambient noise. Nothing upon which he could base any sort of quantitative or qualitative judgement. Very well then, _touch_; what was there to feel?

This was far more productive as Mycroft immediately realised he was lying half on his side, his wrists bound in front of his body, though not overly tightly.

That in itself was an interesting point. Either his captors were amateurs, unskilled in the binding of prisoners, or they were unwilling to cause damage. Either aspect could be exploited at the appropriate time.

He could feel he was still clothed; he could even feel the fit of both shoes on his feet. Nor had he lost his jacket or his watch; the weight of the Hunter lay heavy against his chest. His phone was no longer in his pocket, however.

So, not a robbery, nor a mugging, and not an immediate situation of violence.

Something else, then. An abduction … _possibly_.

Sending out his invisible antennae as far as he could, Mycroft was also able to ascertain that he was lying on a relatively soft surface, though the loose fabric which he could feel gathered and tied at his neck blocked much of the information he might have gathered. Tensing his ankle slightly, he pressed his foot downwards, only to feel the soft surface give a little.

He was lying on a bed.

Moving one index finger away from his body, he shifted it forward until it touched something else not more than inches from him. Something soft and warm and slightly giving beneath his touch.

Another person? _Grace?_ Had they both been taken?

Ceasing all movement, he leaned forward a little and listened. The slightest sound of another's breathing. It was Grace. Without a doubt. The notes of her perfume were clear even with his head wrapped up in the cloth.

They had both been taken and brought somewhere together.

But where? And how long had he been unconscious?

In a second, his bound fingers were at the loosely tied knot at his throat. In another moment, the bag was freed and he pulled it from his head.

He was in a room, a very small, dimly-lit room, barely large enough to house the bed he and … yes, that he and Grace were lying on.

Though his hands felt clumsy and somewhat cramped, he still managed to locate the fastening of the bag covering her head and after a few careful tugs, pulled it free of her tousled hair.

She was still insentient but not deeply so, he noticed, as he breathing changed with the removal of the fabric cover. Perhaps she too was beginning the climb back up to awareness.

He checked her hands; like his, they too had been tied inexpertly. Whoever had put them in the room together would have known they would regain awareness at some point, and would remove their restraints. Therefore it didn't matter if he untied her wrists, just as she would untie his when she awoke.

_Grace_. He allowed his fingers to stroke her cheek. She looked so pale. God knows what they had used to knock them out; one of the new, fast-acting oneirogenics, no doubt. Rather a good one too, in that he felt no unpleasant after-effect as was so often the case.

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the low light emitted from a single storm-lantern hanging on the wall, he could see the bare roughness of the walls themselves; these did not belong in any modern building. The fact that there was absolutely no sound to be heard at all suggested that, even if they were in a cellar somewhere, that somewhere was not in London, or any major conurbation, come to that.

The ceiling of the room was low, but not artificially so, since everything in the room was to scale. This argued that it was a small room in a small, low-roofed dwelling. That the walls were not only roughly plastered, but whitewashed rather than painted … he could just make out the faint tang of limestone in the still air, provided another scrap of data. He noticed the several large hanging-hooks spaced equidistant across the far wall to one side of the undersized window,

The undersized, _barred_ window.

There was no central ceiling light, nor, after he looked carefully around, could he discern any light switches or power sockets. There was a small chest of drawers the other side of the window and, turning his head, he saw an ancient cabinet beside the bed. A shiny lidded bucket stood in the corner, no doubt there for when nature called. In the wall facing the foot of the bed, a single, heavy-duty door. It looked like a _very_ modern door.

So: a small room in a small, rough building; whitewashed walls, furniture for one man; no average woman would tolerate such bleakness. No electricity, no personal touches at all in the old place. The floor was probably stone.

Beside him, Grace stirred uneasily.

"It's alright," he murmured softly in her ear. "You're perfectly alright and in no immediate danger, I promise," he added, seeing her eyelids flick open and closed several times.

"Where are we?" She sounded drowsy.

"In a farmer's cottage or herdsman's croft some distance from Oxford, I fear," he pursed his lips. "Looks like we've been abducted. This place is far from the beaten track: there's no electricity and no noise."

The mention of Oxford made Grace tense as recent memory flooded back.

"It's alright," he repeated, stroking her cheek with a finger. "We're fine and in no immediate danger, I promise you," he murmured. "Are you hurt at all? Did you get banged about on the journey?"

"Not hurt," she breathed. "But bloody furious; I never even had a glass of champagne."

Smiling in the dim light at her bravado, Mycroft lifted his bound hands into view. "Would you mind ..?"

Blinking until she could see what he wanted, Grace made short work of the ties. "So what happens now?" she whispered, looking around the room. It was clear by the bars on the window and the seriousness of the door, that their departure from this place was not anticipated in the immediate future.

"We wait," Mycroft sat up and checked his watch. It was almost one in the morning. This meant they had both been unconscious for at least five hours. How much of that time had been spent travelling? If there was some indication of distance, he'd be able to speculate on their location. As it was, assuming even half that time had been spent on the road, they could be a long way from home. Northern England; almost anywhere in Wales, Cornwall, even. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that they had crossed the channel and were now in some fisherman's hut on Normandy coast.

He paused at that thought, but no. There was no indication they were close to the sea or any hint of fish. In fact the only trace of anything beyond the immediate surrounds was one of ... _hay?_ Was this then a remote farming hut in some high pasture? A geographic listing of all rural areas above one thousand feet flashed through his thoughts: the Peak District, North Wales around Snowdonia; the Brecon Beacons, Dartmoor ... there were a few other peaks that went much higher, but they were all tourist sites and would attract too much attention. No; this place would be very well hidden; somewhere far away from the usual realm of tourist and hiker. This narrowed the possible areas down even more. There may be other indications in the daylight.

Assuming they were ever going to see the daylight.

Standing, Mycroft judged the ceiling to be only inches above his head. Easily able to press a flat palm against the ceiling, it didn't give so much as a whisker when he pushed. It was as solid as a rock and was, quite possibly, exactly that. An unlikely escape route, in any case. Testing the bars at the window, he could see they were tempered steel and well set into the surrounding wall which was thick and no doubt built of local stone. If only he could get a good look at it ...

The door was another thing entirely.

Set snugly into the wall of the room, Mycroft could see that the entire doorframe was new too, no doubt with heavy, reinforced hinges and a very solid lock. Probably bolted on the outside as well. The small central viewing panel was closed, but its opening would be the first sign they were being watched.

There was nothing to be done, in any case. Not until the interaction began.

"Are you cold?" he asked, lying back down on the bed.

Grace turned to meet his eyes, only able to catch a glint of them in the glow from the lantern. "Not really, though I do feel a bit odd ... lightheaded. Not unwell, but not terribly brilliant either."

"When did you last eat today?" Mycroft laid his head down on the pillow facing her, allowing his free left hand to move a tendril of hair from her face.

"Um, breakfast, I think," Grace watched his face. He seemed so calm about all this. _Kidnapped? _Why wasn't he worried? Didn't he realise how terrifying it was?

"Then your blood-sugar is dropping and you need to rest, here," he said, sliding an arm under her, bringing her toward his body. "I know it's difficult, but try and sleep until daylight; we're going to need all our energy and wits about us then, and at least our abductors have been civilised enough to allow us a bed."

"There's no way I am going to sleep tonight after all this," Grace hissed crossly, though she made no objection to using his shoulder as a pillow. Laying her head against his chest, she felt his other arm fold itself across her body, holding her safe within the cradle of his embrace. But there was no way she could possibly sleep.

Mycroft smiled as he felt her breathing even out and her body relax into his own. He knew there would be no sleep for him though; he needed to track any and every movement by the men that had taken them, thus he could not possibly sleep.

Despite the alarming situation, the warmth and softness of the woman in his arms kept his mouth curved with the shadow of a smile. This was definitely not the way he'd hoped for the evening to end, but, once they were out of this, it might even be a blessing in disguise.

He fell asleep, still thinking about clouds and silver linings.

###

John leaned back against the nearest wall and put a hand over his eyes. For all the younger Holmes took an astounding amount of pleasure from the ridiculing, tormenting and general chastisement of his elder brother, the merest notion that Mycroft might be at risk through ineptitude other than his own was intolerable. Sherlock was in full spate.

"... And if none of you so-called security _experts_ have either the ability or the capacity to comprehend the notion, abstract though it may be, of their actual jobs, then I shall be advising the Home Secretary on the scandalous inefficiencies in her purview, as, no doubt, will my brother _upon his release!_" His eyes were narrowed with wrath and his voice sang with vitriol.

"I can assure you, Mr Holmes, that ..." the Head of Security for the Oxford event almost took a step back as the taller, more imposing and certainly more confrontational man stood over him like a particularly judgemental vulture.

"Assure me nothing!" Sherlock threw both hands up in the air. "Until you have my brother's whereabouts," he wheeled around, pinning the man with a furious look. "What intel do you have? I advise you to tell me everything _immediately_ before I am called before the Prime Minister for my opinion on his security _specialists_," he snarled the word.

The combined threat of the PM and Mycroft Holmes's name dried the man's throat. Of the two, he'd take the fury of the PM any day.

"Here's what we have so far, Mr Holmes ..." he sighed, knowing from experience that attempting to out-manoeuvre a Holmes was not a spectacularly advisable career-move.

Listening without interruption until the last word, Sherlock looked over the man's head at John. He twitched his eyebrows. Just a fraction.

"Then I shall need the following," Sherlock folded his arms and assumed a regal stance. "I need full access to both explosion sites, a complete list of any articles, wreckage or relevant detritus in the immediate surrounds of each; I want a complete inventory of anything that survived the explosions and I need to speak to anyone who thinks they saw anything."

"We are still in the process of ..."

"Anyone and _everything_," Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

The man knew when he was beaten. He sighed and pulled out his phone.

###

The light through the window was turning grey with the first hint of dawn when he felt her stir beside him. He'd been awake for some little while, reluctant to abandon their snug intimacy without good reason.

Grace stretched a little before nestling even closer to the delicious warmth. So soft and cosy and ... she blinked awake.

"Ah ... sorry ..." she began, starting to extract herself from his embrace before his arm tightened around her shoulders, arresting any such movement.

"Don't leave on my account," Mycroft's voice was more rumble than diction, as he pulled her gently closer beneath the blanket he'd discovered at the bottom of the bed and drawn over them during the night. Though it wasn't the most comfortable of positions in which to sleep, and it certainly wasn't the most relaxing of circumstances, he'd relished every moment of their closeness.

"What's going to happen now?" Grace didn't fight the long arm that lay over her. Not only was it unbelievably comforting, but she had nothing else to keep her warm. Her silk dress might be a stunning piece of couture, but right now, she wanted a big woolly jumper, and Mycroft was the closest thing to that in the vicinity.

He exhaled slowly, thinking. "Someone will come to tell us what their demands are, at some point," he said. "This place has been very carefully arranged, so it looks like they plan on us being here for some time. Therefore there will be food and probably some sort of basic self-maintenance offered to us, I would say," he added. "Are you hungry?"

"I could murder a cup of tea," Grace whispered into his shoulder. And I need a bathroom."

"There's a bucket in the corner for that purpose, I believe," he made a face. "Not the most civilised of options, but better than nothing."

"I think I can wait a little longer, in that case," she muttered. "Have you heard anything yet?"

"These walls must be very thick," he rested his chin on the top of her head, securing her more completely in his arms. "The only thing I've heard anything of are the birds outside."

Straining hard, Grace was just able to make out some faint chirping.

"Do you think they've just left us here alone?" she wondered out loud.

"The thought crossed my mind briefly, but it makes no sense," he said. "There'll be some contact very soon. You'll see. And when there is," he pressed his lips into the soft tangle of blonde curls. "Leave the talking to me, will you? At least until we have some clue why we are the subject of kidnap and unlawful imprisonment," he paused delicately. "They may make certain threats to control our behaviour, but given we are not currently huddling in a damp concrete basement somewhere, I feel we are relatively safe for the moment."

"As long as you promise not to be too smart for your own good," she slid an arm in beneath his jacket, feeling the smoothness of his shirt under her fingertips. Were it not for the awful fact of the situation, she could find this sort of bodily comfort very much to her liking.

Mycroft swallowed. She was concerned for his welfare and was actively offering her touch; two of the things all the books acknowledged as signs of concern for his wellbeing. It was a most positive development. He felt his heart beat a little harder.

So did Grace; difficult not to since her palm was resting directly above it.

"What?" she asked. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Despite everything, Mycroft felt himself smile. It was ironic that such a terrible setting should give rise to such a hopeful event.

"Nothing," he said, smiling into her hair. "It's been a long time since anyone has been worried for me."

"I'm not worried for you in the slightest," Grace felt it important to clarify the situation. "I'm being pragmatic. I just don't want to be left alone here if you go and get yourself shot or something ridiculous like that, so please don't."

"I'll do my best, I promise," he sighed, still pleased whatever she said, and lay back on the pillow, wondering how long it would be before those responsible for this entire debacle would make themselves known.

He didn't have to wait long.

The panel in the door rattled and slid across, briefly revealing a pair of dark eyes.

"Stay right where you are," the man's voice was loud. Not British, Mycroft noted. Eastern European, Slavic, possibly.

The door was unlocked and pushed inwards as a tall man entered, a dark ski-mask concealing almost all of his face, leaving only a narrow slit for his eyes. There was sufficient light in the room now for everything to be plainly seen, and the masked-man stared at both their faces.

He went very still.

"Get up," he demanded. "Stand over by the window."

"Swinging his long legs off the bed, Mycroft helped Grace crawl over, hampered as she was by the long dress. Holding her hand, he drew her across and into the brighter light.

Not quite Slavic, Mycroft revised his assessment. More Eastern Germany, Dresden, perhaps. Now what was an East German doing in Britain with a gang of kidnappers?

The man produced a small Taser which looked innocuous enough but Mycroft knew it could quickly incapacitate. Waving the device in a vaguely threatening manner, the stranger stepped closer, peering at their faces. He seemed unhappy with something.

"Stay there," he instructed, turning and striding back out of the room, closing the door to with a definite slam.

"There seems to be something amiss," Mycroft muttered, raising his eyebrows and sighing. It was obvious that they were not what the man expected. "Be brave," he whispered. "We might find ourselves out of this sooner than we imagined."

There was the sound of heavy footsteps the other side of the door which was rattled and then pushed swiftly open. A second man stood before them; older, shorter than the first, dark hair turning grey. Wearing a similar mask, he didn't bother with any threat, but walked right up to them both, staring first at Mycroft and then at Grace. He seemed ... disturbed.

After staring between them for at least a minute, he suddenly stood back and let the air whoosh out of his lungs. "You're not Anthony Kell," he announced, staring right into Mycroft's face as he turned to Grace. "And you're not Margaret Beaumont."

"Correct," Mycroft slid an arm around Grace's shoulders. "And now that you've realised the mistake you've made, perhaps you'd be so kind as to let us be on our way? Transport to the nearest town and the return of my phone and we'll say nothing more of it, shall we?"

"Be quiet," the older man folded his arms in thought, the horrible realisation that indeed, the snatch that had gone too easily to be true was, in fact, a huge cock-up. But how? Everything had gone exactly as planned ... Kell was there, with the Beaumont woman ... wait a minute ... he turned to the taller man waiting in the doorway.

"How did you describe the targets to the men?" he asked. "It went down before you'd arrived, yes?"

"I told them ..." there was a dreadful pause as the man, clearly a lieutenant, found the flaw in the plan. "I _described_ them physically and gave them photographs of each target; the tall, dark-haired man and the blonde companion. I told the men what they'd be wearing; Kell in his Armani dinner-suit and the blonde woman in a long green ..." his words faded into nothing as he stared blankly at the tall, dark-haired man in an Armani dinner-suit and a blonde woman beside him in a long green dress.

"I have no idea who those people are," Mycroft spoke up, far more pompously than Grace had ever heard him before. He had to be putting it on for effect. "This lady and I were at the ball, enjoying the evening when we were abducted and dragged here!" he lifted his chin defiantly. "I demand you release us both immediately!"

"Who are you to demand anything?" the taller of the two men sneered. "You don't sound much like anyone who'd be able to demand anything ..."

"Shut up," the older man spoke softly, his eyes resting on Grace's features, tilting his head slightly as he examined her face from different angles. "You," he said finally. "I know you from somewhere."

"I doubt that very much," Grace was feeling headachy now; she was tired and thirsty and felt grimy in the dress she'd slept in. She wanted nothing more than a hot cup of tea and maybe a shower and some clean clothes. "I've no idea who you think I am, and unless you buy books from Waterstones in Gower Street, then I doubt you've seen me before, either."

"You work in a bookshop?" the older man looked at her appraisingly.

Grace felt her hand being lightly squeezed. In support? As a warning?

"If you came to the Gower Street shop, you'd be able to see for yourself," she responded, a little tartly. "Is there any chance we might have something to drink?" she added. "We haven't exactly been accorded guest-status here."

"I know you from somewhere," their captor stood, thinking. "Tell me who you are."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Grace mimicked Mycroft's words and felt him squeeze her hand again.

"Course you don't," the older man looked sage. "But we can soon find out, can't we?" he added. "Maybe even get ourselves back on track with a little help from you," he added, an unpleasant tone in his voice. He turned back to the lieutenant at the door. "Take her photo on your phone," he directed. "Take one of them both, in fact, and email them to me. I know just where to send them to make the biggest impression, and then maybe we might be able to rectify this god awful balls-up you've made."

"Is there a bathroom nearby?" Grace asked suddenly before the men left the room. "I'd like to wash my face, if I may."

The older man considered. He nodded, slowly, pushing the door open to its fullest width. "It's down here."

Taking her turn to squeeze his hand, she looked briefly at Mycroft before she stepped outside the room leaving him to deal with an inner turmoil.

"Your lady-friend will be fine," the older man advised him, recognising his concern. "But the slightest trouble from either of you ..." he left the sentence unfinished as he closed the door.

His heart beating a sudden tattoo, Mycroft watched as the door close to, leaving him alone in the room, not knowing what their captors were planning to do with either of them.

And Grace had foregone what little protection he might offer. Mycroft felt a fierce darkness rising inside of him. She had better come to no harm.

_Omega_. His to protect. _His_.

###

They had laid out what was left of the two cars on the floor of an empty office building, not far from the centre of Oxford. It had taken most of the night and several dozen people, including car mechanics, fire officers, arson investigators and bomb-disposal experts to piece the shattered remains of the two cars together. Yet by dawn, spread across two very large tarpaulins, were the fragmented remnants of what had been two vehicles.

John stood on the side-lines, watching as the younger Holmes paced among the black and oily pieces. There was almost nothing unburned.

Sherlock paused beside a wheel that seemed, miraculously, to have escaped the inferno. It appeared virtually untouched. Peering, he lifted it up on its edge, rotating the wheel between his hands, pausing suddenly. Unearthing a plain white envelope from one of his jacket pockets, he took a small penknife and proceeded to dig in between the tread of the tyre, piling small particles of something black and lumpy into the envelope.

"Any documents?" he asked, standing slowly. "Any receipts or maps the drivers might have been using?"

Silently handing over a large clear plastic bag, one of the arson specialist folded his arms, watching.

Holding the bag up high, the younger Holmes scanned the contents with a swift eye, about to hand the bag back, a flash of red made him pause. Diving a long arm deep inside, he located the small scrap of heavy red card and pulled it into the light. It was the remains of a small, red booklet, no more than the size of his palm. Beneath the burned and blackening layer of soot and oil, he could barely make out something that looked like letters, blocked out in gold.

" R.E.I.S.E ..." he murmured, before straightening up, his eyebrows rising as he did. "Now that's interesting."

"What is?" John felt it was time to be clued in.

Looking up, Sherlock waved the fragment of red card. "This is the remains of an EU passport, John," he said. "A _Reisepass_, in fact."

"Reisepass?" John frowned and looked closer. "Something important?"

"Something German," Sherlock smiled.

###

Grace didn't feel particularly under threat as she followed the tall man several yards down a narrow stone-flagged passage in the centre of what seemed to be a small house. Though the place was relatively clean, it was obvious that it wasn't anyone's primary swelling; no long-term occupant could survive without collecting some detritus in their lives.

"In there," the tall man pointed her to an old door at the other side of the kitchen which she scanned rapidly as she passed through. Opening the door, Grace was relieved, in more ways than one, to see a proper toilet.

After washing her hands and face, she swilled out her mouth and checked her face in the cracked and rusting mirror hanging from the wall. There was quite a pile of large towels on a wobbly wooden chair, so she took one and wrapped it around her shoulders as a shawl. Her dress, though lovely, was not built for anything beyond a party, and certainly not for an old cottage in the middle of ... where? Grace turned to stare out of the small window.

In the early light, she managed to make out a sloping hillside leading down and away from the outside of the building. There was an old, camouflaged tarpaulin covering a heaped pile of logs from the rain, and beyond that, the hill rand a very long way down through short-cropped meadow grass dotted here and there with sheep. There was small copses of dark trees here and there, but everything seemed so distant. She wondered what was on the other side of the building; was there any kind of landmark? Were there any other houses nearby?

"You done in there?!" a heavy banging rocked the door which, Grace just noticed, had no lock, only a latch. She'd been too preoccupied when she came in to notice.

"Coming," she called, wrapping the towel tighter around her shoulders and opening the door.

The tall man in the mask faced her. "You cold, or something?" he asked.

"Actually, yes," Grace looked pointedly at the small gas stove and the kettle. "May I make some tea at least?" she said. "My companion and I have had nothing since ..."

"Now I know where I've seen you. The older man walked closer, smiling. "MI5," he said, at last. "I've seen you in photographs with the head of MI5 and Anthony Kell," he nodded knowingly. "You're someone important."

He grabbed her arm and pulled her over to one of the wooden chairs in the tiny kitchen.

"Tell me who you are," he demanded.

"I told you before that I have no idea what you're talking about."

Looking thoughtful, the man lifted a jacket from off the handle of the nearby door. He pulled out a small pistol and checked the magazine. Moving closer, he rested the gun's muzzle against the smooth skin of her chest.

"Tell me, and tell me now," he said, in a very quiet and utterly deadly voice. "Or things are going to start getting nasty."


	6. Chapter 6 Rectification

**Rectification**

_The Why – A Cover Story – As Long As It Takes – A Broken Confidence – Preparing for the Worst – Safe Harbour – Rocks – Three Days and Three Nights – A Matter of Geology – Lestrade – An Uneasy Sleep – Flight – Thirteen Rounds of Death – Rescue – Awakening – Rectification – Mummy._

#

#

"As I suspected," Sherlock's voice held an undeniable hint of smug. "It's the same mud and, if my deductions are correct, the same car."

Greg Lestrade tapped the end of his pen thoughtfully on the top of his desk. "The same ..?"

"Yes. If I'm correct, and let's face it, I usually am, then this first exploded car is the light blue Toyota hired from the yard outside Gatwick Airport by one Jaysan Vallenda, which he then drove, directly or otherwise, to Oxford, where he, or an accomplice, blew it up."

"So this German acrobat, the same one that did the Holland Park bit of nonsense, is now involved in mainland terrorism and kidnap?" Lestrade bit the pen in an unconscious desire for a cigarette. "That's a bit of a stretch."

"Vallenda's little escapade in London with his British cousins was clearly a sideshow to the main event in Oxford; that of the planned abduction of ..." Sherlock paused, reflectively. "Who? I wonder."

"Not your brother, then?" John leaned forward in one of the Met's uncomfortable chairs resting his elbows across his knees. "Even though everything points to it being a pretty slick operation aimed very specifically at him and Grace Chandler? Nobody else was even hinted at, were they?"

Sherlock smiled faintly and shook his head. "Mycroft takes very great pains to ensure that few people outside his inner circle have the slightest clue who he is and what he does," the younger Holmes shook his head again, more emphatically. "There has been no sign whatsoever that this abduction was aimed at Mycroft for personal reasons, because very few people actually know him on a personal level, and those that do have no reason to involve kidnap," he paused again. "_Murder_, yes," he added, nodding this time. "I can easily see someone wanting to off my brother, but that would inevitably involve some form of hired assassin, and there'd be no need to wait for a visit to Oxford, were that the case. No, a quick bullet between the eyes outside the Diogenes would be all that was necessary, so not a personal vendetta, in that case, no ..."

Walking over to Lestrade's office window and staring down at the lower surrounding buildings, Sherlock seemed lost in thought.

"Couldn't be anything to do with Grace Chandler, then?" Greg sucked on his pen. "Not that there's much going on in her background either," he flipped open the slim folder bearing Grace's name. "Almost nothing on her at all," it was his turn to pause in thought. "Which, of itself it a little strange, actually."

"If my brother is interested in Doctor Chandler, and it seems he is, then I'm sure Mycroft would already have taken steps to render her _official_ past as innocuous and sanitised as his own," Sherlock turned away from the window, his face creased in thought. "So if it's not Grace Chandler, and it's not my brother they were after, then _who?_ If we knew that, we'd also have the _why_."

"Mycroft and Grace Chandler?" Greg's voice was distant. "Never thought I'd hear those two names connected," he said, blinking slowly. If it were true, then it explained a great deal, especially why he and Grace had found themselves suddenly out of touch. Greg recalled the day of Colin Ward's death and how he'd fallen asleep in her bed. They had shared a connection then, or at least, he thought they had. But what the elder Holmes wanted, he went after with some determination, it seemed. Not that Greg could fault the man for trying; Grace Chandler was definitely worth going after. He sighed inwardly. Neither of the Holmes' ever played by the rules. Bastards, both, but _c'est la vie_, and all that. "Seems impossible."

"Once you eliminate the _impossible_, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth," Sherlock sounded arch. "But who would go to such extremes as to hire such a large group of malefactors, for there would have had to have been at least four or five, probably dressed as waiters," he paused, looking sideways at John. "Nobody notices a waiter."

Throwing his friend a scathing glance, John frowned. "You make it sound as if the whole thing was some really poor practical joke," he said. "If the kidnappers weren't after your brother and there's nothing to suggest that Grace Chandler was the target either, then why were they taken? Could such an organised abduction really have been so badly orchestrated?"

Swinging around to meet the blonde man's gaze, Sherlock seemed stunned with realisation. "Not a practical joke, John, and not poorly orchestrated," the tall man inhaled sharply. "Wrong place, wrong time, more likely."

"What was the wrong place?" Greg felt he was on the verge of losing the plot.

"Not what, _who_," Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "The reports all say that my brother and Doctor Chandler were in a remote part of the main college building, a small corridor in what used to be the servant's quarters, and that they were taken with minimal force, though there were some signs of a minor scuffle. If Mycroft were truly threatened, the scuffle would not have been minor."

"But he's not exactly the physical type, is he?" Lestrade frowned. "Old school desk-jockey; high up, I realise, and I know the man keeps himself in shape, but do you really think it'd be much of a problem to knock him out and drag him away? Really?"

"Precisely the image he's taken pains to create," Sherlock's smile flashed. "Why do you think he informs all and sundry that he's a 'minor government official'? If Parliament or the general public ever discovered just _how_ multifarious a role he plays in British security, they'd slap him with a dozen ministerial inquiries into a dozen different quangos before the sun set. No," he lifted both eyebrows and exhaled. "This is something else, or I should say, _someone_ else."

"Mistaken identity?" John raised his own eyebrows. "You think Mycroft and Grace Chandler were snatched by mistake?"

"Almost positive," Sherlock nibbled his lower lip. "Question is, of course, _who?_"

"It would have to have been someone who was known to be there last night," Lestrade went back to biting his pen. "But it was a reunion ball; almost anyone could have been there."

"Then it would have to have been someone who absolutely _must_ have attended ..." Sherlock turned, frowning down at Greg's desk. "Didn't you say that there were also some awards being handed out last night?" he asked. "Some community-service thing?"

"Yep," Lestrade dug around under some sheets of paper before holding one of them up to the light, squinting as he read. "Says there were three awards given last night; all of them to do with community relations."

"Who were the recipients?" John asked.

"Better still," Sherlock suggested, "You have photographs; describe them."

Sighing, Greg did as he was bid. "Sir Malcolm Huttington; medium height, grey hair and looks one whisky away from a heart-attack."

"Next?" Sherlock's gaze was distant.

"Next up is Joshua Maalouf; very tall, skinny as a rake. Looks Mediterranean."

"African," Sherlock added, absently. "Next?"

"Last of all is Sir Anthony Kell," Lestrade stopped mid-breath as he looked at the man's photo.

Lifting his head, the younger Holmes was instantly alert. "Tall, dark-haired, decent dinner suit?"

Greg simply nodded. Nobody who knew Mycroft Holmes would consider the two men identical, but on a casual glance, or by description only; then yes. The two men might easily be mistaken one for the other. "You think that's it, then?" he asked. "They, whoever _they_ are, were actually after Kell?"

"Is there a picture of Kell with his guest of last evening?" John sounded thoughtful.

Rummaging a little more in the small heap of papers, Greg pulled out a series of poor photos held together with a paperclip. Flicking through them, he pulled a sheet from the rest, looking at it judiciously before handing it to the younger men. "That explains the rest of it, I think."

The photo of two people was slightly blurred but good enough to show the image of Kell standing beside an attractive blonde woman in a green frock.

Sighing a little, Sherlock nodded slowly. "At least we know the why," he said. "Now we need to find the _who_."

###

As the chill muzzle of the gun pressed firmly into the skin over her breastbone, Grace felt everything in the world fall into slow-motion. If she looked hard enough, she would probably be able to see individual dust-motes tumbling through the air. She felt her heart thud heavily; an extended heartbeat that seemed to take three times its usual length. Her mouth was suddenly arid and every inch of her skin prickled.

And yet, she felt incredibly composed. Was this what happened when you thought you were about to die?

"If you are going to shoot me, then there's precious little I can do to stop you," she said, calmly, hardly believing her own words. "So if you are, then I have nothing more to say," Grace flicked her eyes up to meet those of the man threatening her life. "But if you're not, I'd really prefer it if you took that thing away from my chest," she added. "It's very uncomfortable."

Blinking, Roberts felt a slow smile crawl onto his face, the first time he had felt anything but anger since Jason had given him the impossible news that the couple in the bedroom were not the couple they were expecting.

There had been a huge error along the way, and now there were two people of very little bargaining value in a room that was supposed to be holding the Chief of MI6, Sir Anthony Kell. The commission he'd accepted, the important and highly _lucrative_ commission he'd accepted, specifically detailed that through Sir Anthony's ransom would come the revelation of those above him. Part of the deal, in fact, was to arrange to have the head of MI6's ransom negotiated by the shadowy figure who was Kell's indirect superior; someone at the Home Secretary's ministerial level, _or_ _possibly higher_. That there was someone in this mysterious role was a given, those who had commissioned the snatch seemed extremely confident of their Intel. Part of Roberts' job was to bring the unknown shadow-power out into the light, but without Kell as bait ...

Yet if the blonde woman in front of him was important enough, the situation might be salvageable. "Then give me a name," he said. "Tell me who you are and why I should bother keeping either you or your pompous friend back there around for a second longer than I want to?"

Quickly realising that Mycroft's true position and role could not possibly be revealed, Grace saw they needed time to find a way out of this; time to let the people who would undoubtedly be searching to find a clue, any clue, to bring them here. Wherever _here_ was. They needed time, and there was only one way she could think of keeping Mycroft safe and creating the necessary delay.

"You say you saw me in a photograph with both Gerald Palmer and Anthony Kell?" she asked in an understated, almost disinterested way. "Was it taken outside MI6?"

A hot surge of triumph rising in his chest, Roberts straightened up, lifting the gun away from her skin as he did so. He had been correct; the woman _was_ someone important. Perhaps sufficiently important to repair some of the damage that had been done to the mission.

"Yes, MI6," he replied. "A few weeks ago. You and Palmer were walking in just as Sir Anthony was leaving. You all stopped for a friendly little chat." Roberts closed his eyes for a moment, recapturing the image in his head. "The three of you seemed very pally."

"There's a very good reason for us to be," Grace hesitated. The only time she'd been outside MI6 with both Kell and her boss was a few weeks before when she'd attended one of Sir Anthony's briefings before the secondment proper began. Whatever lie she chose to tell now, there would be no going back from it. She had one opportunity to do this right. Lifting her eyes to the man standing in front of her, she sighed as if capitulating.

"My name is Grace Chandler," she paused. "Anthony Kell is going to retire soon and I'm his replacement," she added. "Nobody knows yet except for Palmer, the Home Secretary and a select few on high-level government committees."

A second surge of success followed the first, as Roberts realised the incredible good fortune that had just landed in his lap. Not even Kell, but his successor! Though Sir Anthony was a vital figure in the shrouded world of British espionage, how much more important was the new M? _The éminence grise_ he_ had been paid to find must know all about this succession plan._

He looked at the attractive blonde in front of him. He needed to confirm her story somehow; a second mistake would not be tolerated.

"The man you're with," he tipped his head, indicating the far bedroom. "Who is he?"

Already prepared for the question, Grace blinked slowly. "Michael?" she asked casually, as if surprised. "Michael Croft is a ... friend," she said, delicately. "He's a minor government official, but a most pleasant ... companion."

Roberts allowed his eyebrows to rise. If the woman was who she said, then giving up her _friend_ as a hostage to fortune was unwise.

Grace smiled coolly. "I know exactly what you're thinking," she said. "That you can now use Michael against me in some way, but I assure you that, while he's a lovely man, I have known _other_ lovely men. Mr Croft is a cog in the government machine, far better in bed than he is in government administration and if I had to choose between him and my new job ..." she shrugged lightly, a small _moue_ of admission pursing her lips.

"Does he know about your role?" Roberts met the eyes of his lieutenant, Jason Redcar, still standing behind the woman's chair.

Grace laughed softly. "_Michael?_ Do you really imagine for a moment I'd tell a temporary lover anything about me at all?" she shook her head. "Michael thinks I work in the archives at MI5," she said. "It's a cover story that enables me to go wherever I want without people feeling the need to ask me why," she stopped. "So now you know," she said, flatly. "I have some value, but only enough to use as a go-between. If you want to detain either Michael or me, it would be a small blip in the general scheme of things, and another successor can always be found for Kell."

Maintaining eye-contact with the man holding the pistol, Grace new she was taking a real risk. If she claimed that she and Mycroft were worthless, their captors might just take her word, and they would both be very quickly dead. Yes if she made too big a deal of their importance, she had no doubt that torture would just as quickly be the result if these people felt it would help them get what they wanted. Whatever that was.

Though she could only see his eyes through the balaclava-mask that he wore, those eyes were dark and forthright. They belonged to a man who would lose little sleep over their deaths. She hoped her risk was worth the possible cost.

"So you see," she added, "whatever it was you expected to get out of all this, I think you've either miscalculated and picked the wrong people, or there's something else going on that I don't know about," she said. "Care to tell me which one it is?"

Though he made no outward sign, Roberts saw the woman was telling the truth. The indifferent tone in her voice when she spoke of the man in the other room; the unadorned way in which she described her cover story in MI5, even the unexpected calmness in the face of possible death. She could very well be exactly what she claimed to be. He would have to check.

He would also have to check with the man in the other room to ensure he was what she claimed. One mistake had already happened in this operation, and he could not afford a second.

"You wanted tea?" he stood back. "Help yourself; use the bottled water. I'm going to have a chat with your _friend_, see if you really are who you say."

Grace felt her heart thud hard inside her chest. If Mycroft wasn't on the ball, then the whole subterfuge would be in tatters in moments. As she stood by the sink, pouring a large bottle of water into the steel kettle, she looked around for anything that might be used as a weapon. A knife, scissors ... _anything_.

The tall man had followed his boss half-way down the passage, standing equidistant between the far bedroom and the tiny kitchen, but his attention was on the bedroom door which the older man had just entered.

If she were lucky, he'd be distracted for a few seconds at least.

In the top drawer beside the sink was a rusting old breadknife. It was too big to hide anywhere on her person; the dress she was wearing was not intended to act as concealment for large knives.

Lighting the gas with a match from a new box, she noticed there were several boxes of them stacked up to one side. Surely they'd not miss one ... With infinite care, Grace tucked a box down the front of the dress where it nestled flatly between her breasts. As long as she didn't actually jump up and down, no-one would even know it was there.

Waiting for the kettle to boil, she rummaged again in the little drawer. There had to be _something_ ... her fingertips reaching to the very back of the space, Grace felt a rough edge catch at her skin. Pausing, she scrabbled around a little more carefully, locating the thin piece of cold metal and drawing it out into the light.

The blade of a broken knife. Small, and without a handle, she tested the edge with her thumb. It was still sharp. Carefully, she added it to the matchbox, laying it flat against her skin. Any overly-quick movement and she'd likely stab herself.

The kettle boiled and she looked around for mugs, finding only large disposable paper cups and t-bags. Adding sugar to the swiftly made tea, she walked back towards the bedroom.

She'd soon know if Mycroft had been able to pick up on the clues she'd given to the man with the dark eyes.

###

He had been peering out through the tiny window, his hands resting on the wall at either side of the bars. There was little to see except mile after mile of sloping rough pasture, interspersed with irregular gatherings of dark trees and cropped short by the occasional sheep. There were no houses or buildings that he could see; no sound of engines, cars or heavy machinery. Thus this cottage was not part of a larger farm complex, nor was it near a main highway or beneath any major flight-path. The absence of even the most rudimentary form of road or track, argued that this was indeed a very remote place, built for the high-summer accommodation of seasonal farm labourers and farm stock management most probably. There would be little likelihood of accidental discovery, in that case.

His mind returned to Grace. It had been almost ten minutes since she'd left the room. Where was she? It would hardly take anyone more than a few minutes at best to make use of the facilities, and he very much doubted this shack was equipped with anything so modern as a hot shower. So where was she? Had she already fallen foul of their captors?

Attempting to refocus his thoughts, Mycroft analysed what he already knew of the two men, though he assumed there would be others; other accomplices would take turns watching them.

The tall man, no matter that his English was very good, was clearly of German, and specifically _East_ German extraction. Though tall, the black clothes he wore did little to disguise the well-toned musculature of both his arms and legs. Tall and very strong, then. It was the odd-shaped calluses on both palms that told of the man's history in either yachting or gymnastics. That the skin on the backs of his hands was pale decried the former and argued the latter. It also fitted in the accent. But again, why was an East-German gymnast involved with a criminal operation of such magnitude on this side of the Channel? It had to be a very highly paying contract.

And the other man, the leader; shorter, older, less physically athletic, yet still fit and strong. His language suggested a good education; definitely British, with the faintest hint of a _very_ good education. Eaton? Harrow? That the man had also served briefly in the armed forces was clear by his form of command and the fact he was used to others obeying. Had he been cashiered for some delinquency? Possibly a dishonourable discharge? There was no hint of any far-east connection, but it was safe to conjecture the man had served in the middle-east before returning home. Given his age which, judging by his nails, was between forty-five and fifty, he had most likely turned to crime sometime in the last five years; he could not have gained serious command experience were he younger. That he was able to attract such a commission as this suggested his operational reputation was well-established, though he was still capable of making mistakes.

Mentally reviewing all the major gangs and criminal cartels known to have been operating within the United Kingdom for the last five years, Mycroft turned to face the door as the bolt rattled. His breath caught. _Grace?_

It wasn't and his heart seemed to slow. _Where was she? What had happened?_

"Don't worry, Mr Croft," the man he'd designated _Leader_ stepped further into the small bedroom, leaving the door ajar, but his tall and athletic lieutenant was no doubt just outside. "The lady is making tea."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed fractionally. _Croft?_ Leader's voice was full of confidence; he thought he knew something. What had Grace said? That his surname was Croft?

"And who are you?" he demanded, lending a slight uncertainty to the words; just enough to continue the conversation without committing himself to anything.

"It _is_ Michael Croft, isn't it?" Leader folded his arms. "And you work for the British government as ..." he paused, tilting his head as if recalling something. "Ah yes; as a cog in the government machine," he added, a growing disdain in his tone.

"How do you know these things?" Mycroft drew himself up to his full height, looking down his patrician nose at the shorter man.

Though his face was still completely covered, it would have been obvious to anyone in the vicinity that there was a smile beneath the mask.

"Your lady-friend saw reason and told us everything," Leader said. "Told me all about you, for a start."

_Hence the Michael Croft_, Mycroft realised. And the _government_ _cog_. So, Grace had told them that he was someone other than who he was; that he played a minor role in governmental administration. There was a message here; she was obviously keeping everything as anonymous as possible and at a very low key.

"Where is she?" he demanded again. "I insist you tell me the whereabouts of my companion."

"Grace Chandler, you mean?" Leader smiled again, his body-language telling Mycroft everything he needed to know. The man was enjoying this little display of superiority, something he didn't get an opportunity to do very often, it appeared. _Grace had given Leader her real name ..._

Blinking rapidly, as if shocked, Mycroft swallowed visibly. "Where is she?" he asked, his voice softening, unsure. Worried.

"Don't fret," Leader moved back to disdainful. "I wouldn't dream of damaging anyone in her position," he said. "Besides," he added. "I need to get Sir Anthony Kell's attention, and your _friend_ looks like being my best bet."

There was the sound of footsteps outside the door as Leader turned, waiting to see who was coming in.

Grace walked around the solid door, her hands full with two cups of tea. She stopped, short, as she saw she had walked into the middle of a conversation.

Mycroft observed how tense she was. _She would be wondering if he'd been able to follow her cues; wondering if I've kept to her script_, Mycroft thought. He smiled, thankful to see her back and unharmed.

"Might I use the facilities as well, in that case?" he asked, allowing his face to lighten a little. He needed to scout the dwelling; there might be weaknesses in the abductors' arrangements, or perhaps a way to signal for help. Possibly even some technology that might be put to good use.

Rolling his eyes in mild frustration, Roberts nodded. If it ensured willing co-operation and a swift conclusion to this semi-debacle, he would not begrudge his guests access to the amenities, such as they were. Besides, he could always revoke such privileges if they became less than helpful.

"Just tell me one thing first, Mr Croft," Roberts held up his hand. "Tell me what the lady does for a living?"

Mycroft held himself still. This was clearly a trap. Grace had obviously said something to _Leader_ that the man felt able to use as proof of good faith. But what would Grace have said? It was too risky to speculate.

"Perhaps you could be more specific?" Mycroft frowned briefly and looked unsure.

"It's not a difficult question, Croft," Leader smiled congenially. "Just tell me what your lovely companion does to earn her daily bread."

"The truth, Michael," Grace handed him one of the teas as she sat back down on the bed. "There's no point prevaricating."

"But ... but ..." blinking rapidly, Mycroft stalled. He needed to be absolutely sure.

"He's seen me in a photo with Gerald Palmer," Grace lifted her eyebrows and sighed. "They already know what I do."

_Gerald Palmer's name was a solid hint._

"At MI5?" Mycroft asked, keeping his gaze on Leader, but his peripheral vision was excellent. He caught Grace's slow blink.

"Quickly now, Croft; it's not rocket science."

_So the man was not without flaws_, Mycroft confirmed his earlier suspicions. Not only did Leader allow underlings to make decisions beyond their capacity, but the man was also short on patience. _Interesting_. "Doctor Chandler works as an Archivist for MI5," he announced, lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes once more. "It is a highly responsible post."

"More than you'll ever know," Roberts laughed; the woman had been telling the truth after all; she hadn't told Croft what she really was. Not only did she not trust her lover with her real position, but he didn't seem the type of man who'd be up to much in bed either; far too pompous and uptight. Still, there no accounting for taste. He turned and winked at the woman. Let her explain her way out of this one, the traitorous bitch.

"And now I'm going to go and have a little chat with your _real_ employer, _Doctor_ Chandler," he laughed again, soft and mocking. "You may be valuable enough to trade."

"And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?" Grace stood, one hand on her throat. " There is ... medication I need to take on a regular basis."

"Will you die without it?" Roberts pulled up short. It would mean further trouble if his only bargaining point snuffed it before any deal was made for Kell's shadow-boss.

Grace shook her head. "It's for my ... anaemia," she said, eventually. "I get very anaemic."

"Then you'll just have to wear it for a while," Roberts was prepared to go so far to make his hostages comfortable, but no further. "You still want to use the bathroom?" he asked, turning to Mycroft.

"But what do we do in the meantime?" Grace continued. "You expect us to simply sit here and wait?"

"That's exactly what I expect you to do," Roberts walked closer to her, his dark eyes wide and growing angry. "For as long as it takes."

###

"Vallenda's hired car had to have travelled to at least one of these particular areas," Sherlock stood in front of the assembled Scotland yard detectives, his finger stabbing at four completely separate areas on the British national map. "Somewhere near the great Delabole Quarry in Cornwall ... _stab,_ Swithland in Leicestershire ... _stab_, Skiddaw in Cumbria ... _stab_, or Gwynedd in Wales," he scowled. "It has been almost a week since my brother and Doctor Chandler were taken," he added. "Every hour now counts in the search," he added, looking grim.

"Right, Sherlock, thank you," taking the younger Holmes' place at the front of the room. Greg nodded affably around the gathered specialists. "In conjunction with SOEC Division, the Homicide and Serious Crimes Command are now acting, in association with MI5, under the direct auspices of the Home Office," he said.

There were a number of raised eyebrows and more than a few muttered comments from the assembled officers. Such an arrangement was highly unusual; there must be something very big in the wind.

"Yeah, yeah, alright," he saw the exchanged looks and lifted a hand. "You can chew the situation over later, but right now, we're splitting into four sections, each group to cover one of the four areas identified by Mr Holmes here," he added. "It's been six days since the victims were forcibly removed from Balliol College in Oxford, and we've had two contacts from the kidnappers; one with their confirmation that Mycroft Holmes and Grace Chandler were being held, and the second with a proof of life tape that you'll all have heard at least once by now. _Unfortunately_," Greg turned a sideways glance towards Sherlock, "none of us have been able to narrow the search area down any more than this, so let's recap what we do know," he paused, putting up a series of PowerPoint slides.

"We know they were taken out of Oxford in the back of a large van belonging to a local catering company. The company has been checked and been found negligent in the monitoring of its vehicles, but nothing more. Two of the company's vans were stolen on the evening of the Balliol Ball, the business manager only reporting the theft to local Oxford police the following day. As you all know by now, both vans were found empty and abandoned in an old shoe factory on the outskirts of Banbury, though both vehicles had been thoroughly cleaned and were of little help to us in forensics."

Turning to look at the younger Holmes with something of an apologetic expression, Greg continued the unhappy exegesis of the police operation thus far.

"Given that Banbury is located directly on the M40, we have, as yet, been unable to either identify or trace the vehicles the kidnappers used to transfer the victims once the catering vans had been abandoned. There was a partial fresh print of one tyre, but upon investigation, it was shown that the tyre-tread was a generic Dunlop brand, and not of any specific car manufacturers', so we've nothing to go on there. Having said that, we can assume the new vehicles would have to be relatively large in order to accommodate at least two or three kidnappers plus Holmes and Chandler who may or may not have been rendered unconscious by this time, so it's possible we're going to be looking for either other vans or at the very least, a large estate or four-wheel drive."

Sherlock, arms folded tightly across his chest, muttering inaudibly.

Taking a deep breath, Lestrade ignored him, refocusing his attention back on the group. "So there's going to be four squads," he said. Each one will take one of the four areas where at least one of the kidnappers appears to have driven at least once in the weeks prior to the abduction. Forensic tests have analysed certain materials found on the remain of the first of the two exploded cars used as a diversion during the ball. These tests confirm that the car had previously been driven in an area containing both coniferous and deciduous woodland, blue stone and green slate, and it's the slate that's the most useful in the search," he added, flicking to a new slide showing a map of the country.

"These are the four areas containing green slate," Greg faced the screen, pointing out the Peak District, the forest parks of North Wales, the west coast of Cornwall south of Bude and way up the top in Cumbria. If we assume that there is a link between the exploding car and the kidnappers, then it's a reasonable possibility that our two hostages are being held in one of these areas," he paused, a slightly haggard cast to his features. "As we all know, the longer a victim remains in the hands of the kidnappers, the less likely they are to return unharmed. Both MI6 and MI5 are pooling both their resources and personnel in order to locate these two people, but in the meantime, it may just be solid police-work that gets us there in time."

As the larger assembly broke away into four smaller squads, Anthea, leaning back in a remote corner, listening, saw that John was reviewing something on his phone, while Sherlock was over at the far side of the room, talking, somewhat heatedly, with several senior detectives.

"Doctor Watson."

John looked around to see Mycroft's assistant at his shoulder. He smiled, uncertainly. This woman was not always good news.

"There's something you need to know about Grace Chandler," she said. "It may become important in the near future."

"Something that needs a doctor?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Possibly," she nodded, passing him a slim box, small enough to fit in his hand. He read the name of the contents on the front. _Xarione_.

"This is a biological suppressant," he said, meeting her gaze. "A reliable one. People only use this for good reason," he added, pausing reflectively. "Does Grace Chandler have good reason?"

Inhaling, Anthea nodded silently. "If she's off them for more than a few days apparently, nature reasserts itself and she becomes ... vulnerable," she said. "The only reason I'm breaking a confidence and telling you is because you're a doctor and you may need to be there to help her deal with ... whatever she has to deal with."

"Omega?" John slipped the box into his jacket pocket.

Anthea nodded again. "And if she's with Mr Holmes ..."

"Who, other than Sherlock, is one of the biggest, pain-in-the-arse Alpha's I've ever met," John closed his eyes, understanding. Grace's position would be even worse if there were more than one Alpha in the area when she entered her heat phase. God knows what might end up happening.

He realised Grace Chandler was probably terrified.

###

It had been over a week now since they had been brought to this place, Grace calculated as she woke up earlier than usual; nine days, in fact. Counting back the mornings to the very first time Mycroft had heard the sound of birds and nothing else, yes; nine days. Nine days of anxiety and worry and fear of what might happen, especially of what might happen if their abductors ever discovered who the man sleeping next to her really was. Something that she would not let happen; Mycroft Holmes was far too valuable to risk, and she had done everything in her power to minimise the possibility of his discovery.

Of course, he hadn't been too taken with the idea.

"If they _ever_ find out you are the man behind the British security services, then Christ knows what they'll do to make you talk, or give them whatever they want," Grace hissed as they had lain, face-to-face on the small bed, the coarse blanket up to their eyes. The sliding panel in the door was temporarily closed. "So just shut up for once, and let me be the important one; they'll never think of thinking about you if they're fixated on thinking about _me_."

"Now, _you're_ the one who's being ridiculous," Mycroft stared into shade-darkened grey eyes barely ten inches from his own. "I cannot and _will_ not permit you to risk yourself on my behalf. You must think me some sort of unconscionable brute to imagine I'd consider such a strategy, even for a moment."

"Mycroft, listen," Grace pleaded. "In the first instance, nothing is going to happen to me," she said. "As soon as they can arrange some deal with Sir Anthony, they'll end up getting caught, somehow, and we'll be out of here in a jiffy," she sighed. "Your brother is obviously going to be all over this, which means it's only going to be a matter of him tracking us down to wherever this place is," she sighed. "We have to be patient."

There was silence between them.

"Can you afford to be patient?" Mycroft held her gaze, not wanting to sound alarmist, but knowing one of them would have to mention the elephant in the room.

Of course, she knew immediately what he meant.

Closing her eyes, Grace leaned her head down against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin through the rough cotton of the t-shirt he was now wearing.

It had become clear early on that if their 'stay' were to be an extended one, then they would need at least one change of clothing is things were to remain civilised. After a few days, of making do as best they could, a plain white plastic bag containing two grey t-shirts, and two pairs of grey track pants. Not the most elegant of attire, but better than nothing and at least they were soft and warm. The look on Mycroft's face when she'd told him to take off his clothes.

"I have no desire to disrobe under these circumstances," he murmured, lifting his chin and staring down at her through half-lidded eyes.

"And I have no desire to share a bed with a smelly man," she countered. "I shall find some way of washing our current clothing so that at least we might maintain a semblance of civility," Grace paused, smiling tightly. "Or would you prefer to sleep on the floor?"

She had won, of course, stripping off herself, donning the new clothes without the slightest hesitation. She had smiled at his long-suffering sigh as he bent down to untie his shoes. While he changed, Grace banged on the inside of their door, something she was getting used to doing by now. She had persuaded their captors to allow her to wash, as best she could, their under things, Mycroft's socks and shirt, so at least they could stay relatively fresh in their habits, hanging the damp clothing up on the wall-hooks in their room to dry.

And the t-shirts weren't all _that_ bad, as she now acknowledged as she curled closer into Mycroft's body heat and comforting embrace. His arm slipped naturally over her waist, bringing her closer, but there was no mood of playfulness now. It was more about comfort and shared warmth than anything else.

"No, I don't suppose I can afford patience," Grace muffled the words against his chest, knowing what was going to be happening to her in the next few days, knowing how it was going to affect both of them and realising, in the cold and awful light of day, that there was nothing either of them could do about it. "Without my suppressants, there's no way for me to prevent it," she muttered, feeling awful. "There's no way out of it."

She sounded so close to despair, that Mycroft only held her tighter to him, feeling an overwhelming need to keep her safe and out of danger. In a few days, if Grace went into an unsuppressed heat phase, it would provoke an answering response in him and in any other Alpha in the vicinity. He was fairly sure he could control his own behaviour, but had no idea how any of their captors might react. Or how Grace herself might behave. This was all uncharted territory.

Nor did he feel it politic to advise her that, despite her best efforts to keep herself scentless, he had already detected a marked change in the heady bloom of her skin which had nothing to do with their primitive ablution facilities, and everything to do with her biology. Her new fragrance was sweet and musky and he found himself looking for it every time she was in his arms. Despite himself, he was drawn to her now more than ever.

"With every hour, the police will be narrowing their search," he breathed against her ear. "And even with my brother's undoubted histrionics, they will have their best people on this, I'm sure of it," he murmured. "I cannot believe it will take them much longer to find us, no matter how remote and hidden we are," he said. "You have to try and maintain your calm, no matter what."

_Try and maintain her calm_. Only an Alpha could say something so irritating, Grace realised, biting her lip in faint horror as she recognised the shortening of her temper as a sign of the oncoming storm. She wanted to run away and hide, she wanted to scream at the unfairness of everything and she feared she might weep from the fear of what was about to happen. Grace knew her cycle well enough and she knew she might have one or two days at best before her system went haywire.

"I'll do my best," she had mumbled against his chest, breathing him in. The very male condition of him acted as an anchor, enabling her to relinquish, for a moment, her fears.

If the worst came to the worst, she'd ask their captor, the one Mycroft called _Leader_, if she could stay outside in the open air. She couldn't go anywhere, but at least she'd be able to suffer with a degree of privacy. Almost anything was preferable to what she knew was likely to happen.

Feeling drowsy again in the early morning light, she closed her eyes and pressed closer to Mycroft in his continued sleep, his embrace tightening without conscious awareness as he breathed in the fragrance of her hair, newly washed with soap as Grace sensed the onset of heat that had little to do with his proximity.

_And she dreamed an old dream_.

She was standing in the bow of a sailing ship in the middle of the sea; she could hear the rigging creak and felt the sway of the deck shifting beneath her feet as the dark blue waves slapped the hull. The day was fading into gloom, not evening, but the dark of a storm, and the colour of the ocean was the colour of the angry sky. Clouds rushed past in great scads of grey smoke. The entire scene was one of haste: haste to leave the wild water, haste to escape, haste to seek refuge. But there was nowhere to run, the storm was almost upon her, and there was no shelter in sight.

_And then there was_.

Out of the gloomy and bruised storm clouds, a sudden island, a place of tall, dark trees; sharp mountains and barren, rocky coves. As the first spike of lightening slashed down through to the ocean's surface, the ship coasted easily into a large cove, coming to an unhurried rest in a gentle lagoon, where golden sunlight and soft sea-breezes quietened the sails and brought her to safe harbour.

Grace slept, a smile on her lips.

###

"And if it's not Cornwall or the Peak District, at least we've narrowed down the search-area a bit," John rubbed his eyes, shadowed and bleary from too little sleep, too frequently broken. It had been ten days now, ten long and arduous days since Mycroft Holmes and Grace Chandler had been taken from Oxford.

Their abductors were being very clever, fully aware that none of this would ever reach the papers or television news; there was something far too important about this particular situation to ever risk letting reporters have it. A standard D-Notice had been issued at the very outset of the investigation and so far, nobody had dared breach the provisions of the order.

The most recent proof-of-life had been received only the day before, when a note was left under the windshield wiper of an MI6 employee at Vauxhall Cross. Written in Grace's own hand, the note confirmed that she and her companion were safe, adding the headline of a national paper into the note with the day's date. As of yesterday at least, it seemed they were both still alive and hopefully in a reasonable condition. But nobody had seen the message being delivered or the messenger who left it.

"But no _time_, John," Sherlock paced the large and currently empty situation room, blind to the masses of papers on the desks, the stack of empty coffee cups in overflowing bins, and the stale whiff of sweat. "Those who took them must know that every day now increased the danger of their capture. This increases the danger to my brother and Grace Chandler, and all I have been able to do is identify some crushed stone in mud taken from a car tyre!" Kicking a chair away in a pique of rage, the younger Holmes leant over a table, supporting himself with both arms outstretched. His breathing was harsh and laboured.

"Then do something _else!_" John stood, the fingers of one hand raking through his short hair. "Use that almighty brain of yours and _work it out!_ It can't be that difficult to tell one bit of rock from another, for God's sake!"

Sherlock's breathing stilled and his body stiffened. "Say that again," the words were soft.

"What? That you need to use your brain to work it out?" John held his breath, recognising this as one of his friend's _aha_ moments.

"The other bit," Sherlock stood slowly, like an old man.

"Do something else?" John stared at the man in front of him, _willing_ him to have an idea.

"The _other_ other bit," Sherlock waved his hand. "About the rock."

"That it can't be too difficult to tell one rock apart from another rock?" John frowned. He had definitely said that, though he wasn't entirely sure what it was he had said.

"Brilliant! John, you're a genius!" the younger Holmes grinned like a maniac, pulling out his phone and making a very important call.

###

It was just after midday on the tenth day of their unlawful imprisonment that Grace felt the first clear flickers of heat appear. Dreading this moment, she felt her skin tingle in shock now that it was actually upon her. She could already feel the skin of her neck and throat begin to smoulder as a languorous tremble shuddered its way through her body. Unable to do anything else, she walked over to the farthest corner of their cramped quarters and huddled down on the cold stone floor, arms wrapped around her head.

Mycroft tensed, his eyes following her movement. He had been aware of Grace's growing disquiet for some time now and was unsurprised that the inevitable had happened.

"I'll ask them if you can be left alone in here," he stood, not daring to approach her; the scent of her warming flesh already causing his heart to pump harder, a low thrum of _want_ in his veins. Any notion that he might be able to control himself beside her, _lying beside her at night_, was clearly a foolish one. He should have known better; should have remembered the effort it had taken him to pull away from her the first time this had happened, more than two years before. If he'd imagined himself strong enough to rise above such a biological compulsion, he'd already been proven wrong. Every minute he stayed in here, beside her, added to the danger that either he, or, perhaps even worse, that Grace, would succumb. He had to get out and quickly. He banged on the door.

The panel slid open, the dark eyes of the taller lieutenant peering through.

"What now?"

"The lady is unwell and needs to be by herself," he said. "Please allow me to provide her with some privacy."

"What's the matter with her?" the man stared at Grace curled into the corner.

There was little point lying; the truth would be evident to anyone who cared to observe.

"Doctor Chandler is an Omega," he stated calmly. "She is at a critical point in her biological cycle."

"For how long?" the tall man in the mask demanded, staring harder.

"A few days at most," Mycroft realised he was starting to breathe through his mouth and closed it firmly. Almost immediately, the scent of _Omega_ hit him and his focus began to crumble. "It would be civilised to afford her some privacy," he murmured, observing, with some relief, that the man was a Beta.

The tall man laughed, shaking his head. "Nowhere else for you to go," he grinned nastily. "Looks like you and the lady are just going to have to make the best of it," he added, sliding the panel closed with a horrible finality.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft," Grace experienced a wave of embarrassment as she heard the conversation. This was an untenable situation, but there was nothing, it seemed she could do. "Perhaps if I tried to persuade them," she muttered, standing slowly, avoiding his eyes.

As she walked passed him towards the door, Mycroft found his eyes closing as a waft of compelling fragrance clawed at his attention. His hand caught her upper arm, swinging her around.

"Don't apologise," he said, turning so that she rested against his chest, his arms holding her safe. "This situation is not of your making, and I'll not allow you to suffer for it," he said, resting his face in her hair. "No matter what happens, you are not to worry; we'll manage to find a way through this, I promise."

Leaning into his tall frame, Grace felt some of her anxiety ease as he supported her body with his own. A new wash of heat crawled up her neck and over her face at his proximity and she sighed unsteadily. No matter what Mycroft said, it wasn't going to be as simple as he might think.

She wanted nothing more than to feel his cool flesh next to hers, absorbing the heat and tempering the fire that was already rising inside.

And there would be three days of this. Three days and three nights.

###

It was already dark when they stepped out of the Natural History Museum on Cromwell Road, Sherlock shuffled through several of the coloured images in his hand, raising them as he hailed a cab and simultaneously pulled out his Nokia.

"So that's it, then?" John waited until the taxi pulled to a halt before climbing in. "It really was that easy."

"I cannot believe it took me so long to think of it," Sherlock struck his knee with a clenched fist. "My brother wasn't joking when he said one's mental faculties faded with middle-age, as I am clearly on the cusp of my own antiquity," he growled, waiting to be connected to Lestrade.

"Finally!" he snapped as the Met Officer answered his call. "Having an early nap, were we?"

There was a faint murmur at the far end of the call.

"No matter, Lestrade," the younger Holmes cut him short. "Tell your superiors the search can be narrowed down to an area around Pentrefoelas in North Wales," he said. "On the edge of Gwydyr Forest Park in Conwy," he added. "The particular slate I found in the mud on the tyre has been verified by geological experts and can only originate from that particular area. I am texting you the co-ordinates. John and I will arrange transport to get us there as quickly as possible. _Hurry_."

Ending the call, Sherlock immediately sent a text to the same number, along with an image of the physical locale he'd taken from a large-scale Ordnance Survey photograph inside the Geological Museum. It showed a wild place of empty hillsides and the occasional stand of dark, coniferous trees. Beyond the small village, there was little to see except rough pasture and one or two isolated huts high up in the lonely hills.

A perfect place to keep hostages.

Even before the cab reached Baker Street, Sherlock was ringing a second number.

"John and I need an urgent ride to North Wales," he instructed. "I'm convinced my brother and Grace Chandler are being held captive in the area around a small village on the A5 near Betws-y-Coed. I've alerted the police, but it's going to take too long to reach by car, so a helicopter is indicated. Make sure the pilot is a Beta; I want no Alphas anywhere near the place, do you understand? It would be dangerous for them."

Apparently his message was very clearly understood. "Where?" he asked in response to a query, "We're currently in a cab."

Listening intently, Sherlock nodded before tapping the driver on the shoulder. "London City Airport," he directed. "_Fast_."

###

Greg stood behind his desk, phone-in-hand, an intent expression on his face.

"_Pentrefoelas_ in North Wales," he nodded. "On the edge of some sodding great National park," he added. "Christ knows how we're going to find anyone up there, but I've never known Sherlock Holmes be wrong about something like this."

Lestrade paused, a frown gathering between his eyes. "_No, no_," he shook his head now, disagreeing violently with whomever was on the other end of the call. "There's _no_ way you're keeping me out of this after everything I've been through on it so far!" he was almost yelling. "If anyone's going to be in on the kill, it's going to be me!"

There was more murmuring in his ear and he relaxed slightly.

"Well, alright, then," he inhaled briefly. "Where and when?"

###

Mycroft held himself very still, unwilling to disturb the sleeping woman lying beside him. It had taken Grace much longer than usual to ease into sleep; her breathing far more rapid than normal, her body-temperature warmer even than his own. It was as if she were feverish without illness. For she was far from ill.

As this first day of her crisis had settled in upon her, the surging, animalistic part of his mind had felt the amplification of his own desire as his enhanced biology responded to the call of her strange new physicality; of the increasing need to be close to her; to hold, to _touch_. His fingertips longed to feel the smoothness of her skin. The other, still vaguely rational part of his brain had observed the mounting lustre of her eyes, of the flush of brightness in her face, the sudden change in her demeanour from uncomfortable and withdrawn to vivacious high spirits. It was as if she had taken some kind of drug, the difference was so marked. And with each added rush of hormones to her system, Grace had become more exultant and alive, as if her true self was, for once, visible to the naked eye.

"I could fall in love with you again, you know," she was lying on the bed, one arm tucked behind her head, the other outstretched, fingers pointing towards the low ceiling as if to caress the rough whitewash. "It wouldn't take much."

While his heart leaped at the words, Mycroft knew it was not really Grace who was speaking but her Omega instincts. The instinct to find a mate while she was at her most fertile, to find a man to help her ride out the tempest of her own physiology.

"You are not yourself," he murmured, his voice low and alien even to his own ears. "You will not remember any of this in a few days."

"Yes, I will," Grace sighed gustily. "I fell in love with you back in Cambridge and I never really stopped, though I did a pretty good job of convincing myself otherwise," she said. "And then when I saw you again at Millbank ..." she giggled. "When I barged right into you ..." she sighed again. "It was as if there had been no distance between us at all ... no time between us," she groaned, rolling over and curling up into a ball. "I _ache_, Mycroft," she whispered. "I ache."

Clamping his jaw tight, the elder Holmes had sat in the corner of the room where she had previously stayed; as far away from the bed as he could possibly manage. Not that it made any difference. But at least if he stayed over here in the corner, he maintained the illusion of control.

Lowering his head to the arms crossed over his knees, Mycroft inhaled slowly and deeply, aware of all the pheromones in the small, enclosed space, aware of the effect of they were having not only on his mind but on his body and, most importantly, on his self-restraint. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to cross the room to where she lay, to fold her body within his and to kiss her into madness. He would not be gentle, but then, he knew that gentle was not what Grace desired. Her body longed for a mate who could meet her primal desires and burn with the same ancient fires in which she now seethed.

Pressing his forehead harder against the bridge of his arms, he had gritted his teeth and breathed softly.

Part of his enhanced Alpha senses heard the remote engine of an aircraft passing overhead, the first time he'd heard anything other than sounds from within the cottage itself. Some northbound pilot had clearly wandered off the prescribed commercial flight-corridor. He blinked, returning to his current version of purgatory.

And now it had been a full day and he feared he was going slightly mad.

"_Mycroft_ ..." Grace moaned in her sleep, her fingers reaching out for his arm, his chest.

Grinding his teeth together, he swung his legs off the bed and retreated to the far corner of the room again. Even if he had to lie here on the cold, hard floor, rather that, than he succumb and give his inner beast unwarranted licence.

On the bed, Grace shifted restlessly, her body turning over and back as she looked for an unlikely peace.

###

The same small, black helicopter as before was waiting for them, rotors already at a lazy rotation as they clambered into the passenger space and belted in.

"Flight-time of just under the hour," one of the co-pilots yelled back over his shoulder as he wound the engine up towards full flying speed. "Do you know your precise landing location yet?"

"Not yet," Sherlock yelled back. "But I may have something for you before we get there."

The sky was full-dark now, and the lights of the great City glared beneath them as the aircraft headed north and west as fast as could be managed. It was only minutes before they left the huge glow behind, crossing over large stretches of invisible farmland, framed by the trail of car-lights on the roads bisecting the dark spaces. Oxfordshire vanished under their flight, followed by closely by Warwickshire and the border of Shropshire was right behind them.

In less than the predicted time, the small and near-invisible helicopter was swiftly approaching the tiny village of Pentrefoelas, seen only by a close-knit gathering of lights on the ground.

"Where do you want me to land?" the pilot shouted again.

"I don't know yet," Sherlock yelled back. "Can you hover around for a while?"

"Can do," the pilot nodded emphatically, turning to check his fuel gauge. "But not for long!"

###

Still in the corner of the room, Mycroft heard the sound of a second aircraft, a helicopter. Lifting his head he listened harder, aware suddenly that this was perhaps not, after all, a pilot's mistake.

In an instant, he crossed the room, pulling out the box of matches Grace had liberated. Looking for something to use as a flare, he saw the towel she'd taken to wearing as a shawl. Heading over to the small window, he used the heel of his shoe to crack a corner of the glass, pushing it away and creating a wider gap with the broken knife.

As soon as he felt the breeze of cold night air, he lit the corner of the thick material, his fingers clumsy and slow with haste.

The cloth glowed and then faded as the small flame disappeared.

Cursing, then clamping his jaw tight, Mycroft realised he would only have the one chance to do this before their captors discovered his emergency flare.

He lit four matches together this time and held them close to the thick cloth. Their combined heat causing the fabric to ignite and burn as he thrust it out of the window and into the dark night.

###

"There!" John pointed downwards at a patch of lonely hillside far above the village where, for an instant, he'd seen a tiny flicker of light. "Look," he shouted over the noise of the engine. "_Look!_"

Craning his head to peer out of John's window, Sherlock saw nothing but black space.

"There's nothing … _wait_ …"

Another flicker of light, clear, at the height they were hovering, as something burning. The leaping flames caught even the pilot's eye. "_There?_" he shouted.

"As close as you can!"

John pulled the Browning from his pocket and checked the magazine. It was full; thirteen rounds of death for anyone who needed it.

###

The flare had been seen! Mycroft felt a surge of adrenalin clear his head of the fog that had filled it all day. Swiftly moving towards the bed, he shook Grace by the shoulder; she needed to be awake for this. If he had heard the helicopter, then so would those who had abducted them. The first thing the men would do would be to secure their hostages.

He wasn't going to let that happen.

"Grace, wake up!" he shook her again, but all she did was roll away from him, groaning softly as her body fought an internal battle.

He couldn't wait; he needed the bed.

Wrapping her up in the coarse blanket, Mycroft laid her carefully on the floor in the corner opposite the door. A second later, he was dragging the solid and very heavy wooden bed across the door opening, leaning it hard over the door itself, adding the mattress as well to the pile. Thankful for the additional strength his Alpha nature accorded him, he piled the chest of drawers on top, small though they were, wedging them in front of the makeshift barricade. It wouldn't stop Leader or his men for long, but it might just stop them long enough.

###

"Where are they now?" Captain Jonathan Hissock checked his watch, peering over the shoulders of the two pilots controlling the large Westland Wessex helicopter. "Are they still on your dash?"

"Right there, sir," one pointed to a radar panel on the lit control panel beside him. In the total dark of the cabin, it was easy to see. "Looks like they're heading towards that small cabin near the top of the hill."

"Is that a flare?" Hissock's eyes were as sharp as any of the fourteen men behind him, each of them a highly-trained and very keen volunteer of Her Majesty's Special Air Service.

"Looks like it is, sir," the chief pilot nodded. "Want us to put you down?"

"On the roof, lieutenant," Captain Jonathan grinned; white teeth gleaming in the shadows. "On the bloody _roof_."

###

That their pilot had managed to find a semi-level stretch of pasture was an amazing feat in itself, in such darkness. Knowing their approach must have been heard by now, Sherlock and John threw themselves into the cold night air, bending low and running directly towards the small cottage. The smell of burning cloth lay acrid on the still night air.

But it wasn't the whiff of scorched cloth that made them stop and look up; it was the overpowering sound of a far larger aircraft, hovering almost directly above the building, and the dark lines suddenly snaking down from the sky.

In the next moment, each line was heavy with men dressed in night-combat gear as they shimmied down the black ropes and swarmed over and around the small dwelling. In a matter of seconds, the place was entirely and silently surrounded, as several of the men approached the only visible entrance.

Not bothering to demand entry, one of them simply kicked the door in, thrusting his semi-automatic inside.

There were several shouts, a single shot, and several even louder shouts, before all three men crowded inside, their combined bulk blocking out what little light emanated from the building.

John pocketed his gun, straightening up and scanning the activities with an appreciative eye. "They've done that a few times, I'd say," he murmured.

Though he said nothing, Sherlock felt an odd sense of dread begin to lift. There was nothing left for him to do now; whatever had been Grace Chandler's and his brother's fate, it was beyond his ability to affect. He inhaled slowly. They would soon find out.

"Holmes?" one of the men from the Wessex approached. "Was told to look out for a tall chap in a long coat," he assessed Sherlock. "That's you, I take it?"

"Indeed, Captain," the younger Holmes nodded, recognising the darkened wings of the sacred ibis on the man's shoulder patch "22 SAS regiment?"

"Captain Hissock," the man shook Sherlock's outstretched hand. "I am informed your brother is inside the building, demanding to speak with you and a Doctor Watson," he paused, turning to stare at John. "Which would be you, I'm thinking," he added.

"It would," John agreed. "I think there might be a medical issue inside," he said. "I'm free to attend them?"

"Be our guest," Hissock waved them both on. "The danger has been neutralised, as you can see."

And indeed they could see, as three men, two of medium height and one somewhat taller were dragged across the hillside with their hands behind their heads.

Pausing, Sherlock stared at the tallest of the three. "Denken Sie daran, den Zirkus?" grinning happily as the man whipped around to stare at their backs, Sherlock walked towards the cabin.

"Don't tell me that was ..." John jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"You don't really need me to tell you anything, John, do you?"

"No, but I bloody do," Greg Lestrade appeared out of the dark. "I hitched a ride with these mad sods," he said, nodding at the rest of the men in black. "Scared the bejesus out of me when they said I'd have to drop down the rope. The bastards."

There was a quiet laugh from one of the nearby soldiers before everything went quiet as they entered the cottage.

"_Mycroft_" Sherlock shouted.

"_Here_," his brother's voice was weary but clear.

As he closed in on the sound of his brother's voice, Sherlock suddenly stopped short, his nostrils flaring. "I'd better stay out here, John," he said. "You go in; my brother doesn't need me as much as he needs you right now."

Entering a room the end of the short passage, John finally saw the elder Holmes sitting on the floor in the corner with Grace Chandler, wrapped in a blanket. She seemed insensible.

"It's too late for suppressants, Doctor," Mycroft wasted no time with pleasantries. "She needs to be somewhere safe and private now as this thing runs its course."

"No disagreement here," John took the blonde woman's pulse. It was racing.

Grace stirred feebly. "Take me _home_, Mycroft," she whispered. "Please take me home."

###

She barely recalled anything of the journey away from the cottage, aware only that at one point she was being carried into the cold darkness. Then there was a lot of heavy engine-noise and the feeling of arms holding her tight.

She was so hot ... she burned.

Nor was she aware that the small helicopter that had brought her back to London was actually touching down in the middle of a wide City street in a rather exclusive suburb, temporarily and specifically closed for that precise purpose. The arms tightened around her, lifting her closer to a body as familiar now as her own.

The next thing she knew, there were lights, low and infrequent, as she was carried through more darkened rooms and finally into a huge bathroom.

"_Hot_," she moaned. "Hot ... _burning_ ..."

"It will soon be over, my darling, just a little longer," Mycroft's voice was rough yet curiously gentle.

Laying her down against one of the cool, tiled walls, he turned the shower on to a lukewarm rain which soaked them both, clothes and all.

"I'll go and find some fresh clothing ..." he began to stand.

"Don't leave me again," she whispered, her hand reaching out for him. "You've left me twice before, _please_ ... not again."

Closing his eyes, Mycroft took a deep breath before turning back to the woman whose hand rested at his ankle. She was right. He could not possibly leave her a third time.

Kneeling down beside her, his fingers curved around the fine bones of her face, bringing her closer. "Then I'll stay," his voice almost breaking as he gathered her again into his arms as the warm water flowed from their skin and hair.

Shedding their clothing, they lay for a while in the cleansing rain, finding soap and foam to rid their skin of the recent past.

Opening her eyes wide as she watched him carefully washing her hands, Grace smiled though her senses were swimming. "I think I've had enough showering for now," she whispered. "Are there towels?"

Pulling her carefully to her feet, Mycroft smiled too, reaching around with a huge wrap of the softest fabric as he brought her close to his chest and found her mouth with his own.

"Are you quite sure?" he managed, knowing that his restraint was down to the barest knife-edge. If he weakened now, there could be no turning back.

Reaching up for him, Grace said nothing. There was no need; she had never been so sure of anything in her life.

###

Blinking her eyes open, the first thing she realised was that this was not her own bedroom. Levering herself up on both elbows, Grace gazed around, feeling groggy with sleep and … she moved experimentally. Her entire body ached. She frowned, piecing together the events of the last few days.

A great black pit seemed to open up beneath her as her memory traced the sequence of activities since her heat began at least three days ago in a small room in some miserable little hut … Allowing herself to collapse back onto the bed, she covered her face with both hands, groaning as she finally realised the truth.

_Impossible._ This _couldn't_ have happened.

_But it had._

There was no way she would have forced herself on him … would she?

_Yet she had._

And now, unwilling to embarrass her in the cool light of day, he'd left her alone so that she could leave quietly and without further fuss.

_Oh, God_.

Flinging back the bedclothes, Grace lifted herself gingerly from the rumpled bedding, searching for something to cover her nakedness. There was a small suitcase on an ottoman at the foot of the bed; it looked strangely familiar. Opening it, she saw it was the one she'd taken up to Oxford for the weekend celebration, and contained everything she needed.

Hoping that she was alone in the house which, she supposed belonged to Mycroft … she groaned again … Dressing swiftly, she pulled on jeans and a shirt while finding her purse and keys with a real sigh of relief. At least she could make her own way home now without having to call for his help.

Grabbing her case, she padded down the thickly carpeted stairs, making her way to what would logically be the front door. There was a large hallway and indeed, a rather grand entrance and she paused, waiting.

The rest of the house was silent, and Grace had no idea why she was hesitating. What was she waiting for? There was obviously nobody here but herself.

Pulling the door open, she stepped through, closing it firmly behind her as she descended a brief flight of broad limestone steps to pavement level. Waiting at the kerb's edge, she sighed again with relief as the familiar shape of a London cab drove her way. Seconds later, she was headed for the other side of the river and a sanctuary of her own.

She had already decided what she had to do now that Mycroft had made it perfectly clear he wanted no part of her. She would leave London, travel, perhaps. Maybe work overseas for a while until she managed to pull her life back into some useful shape.

Either way, her resignation would be on Gerald Palmer's desk by the end of the day.

###

Putting her apartment up for lease had not been as traumatic as she had imagined it would be. Nor had the inevitable discussion with MI5's Chief. In fact, everything had gone surprisingly smoothly. Grace felt the weight of her mobile phone in her pocket, but it was there more from custom than use: she'd kept the thing turned off for the last few days; too much the coward to face Mycroft again in any shape or form.

It was late as she cleared the few things that remained on her desk in the Archive Office. She felt terribly sad that things had come to this, but she had little choice. There was no way she could stay now and further embarrass them both.

She heard the far door open and close; one of the cleaners, probably.

Mycroft walked in, straight up to the front of her desk where she stood, cutting her off from an easy escape. Their eyes met as his chin lifted slightly, assessingly.

_Oh God._

Though she wanted nothing more than to crawl away, Grace waited for him. The situation was entirely in his hands. He had come to her office to speak to her, though she wasn't exactly sure why. She had learned not to attempt guessing when it came to either of the Holmes brothers.

"You know, of course, why I'm here," he pursed his mouth, looking thoughtful.

"Actually, no," she maintained the eye-contact. Regardless of how much justification he might have, Mycroft Holmes was not about to intimidate her in her own bloody office. "Though since you're here in person, I assume the reason has some importance for you."

Drawing in a slow breath, Mycroft nodded judiciously. "You might say that," he nodded fractionally. "Some importance, yes."

He moved forward slowly, more of a sway than a step.

"I realise we are at something of an _impasse_," he said. "A position which is neither productive nor ultimately desirable," he paused, his eyes hooded and guarded. "I have come to rectify the situation."

"Oh yes?" Grace folded her arms. "And how do you propose to do that?" her sense of shame dwindled under his portentous pontificating. If he wanted a willing audience for his blazing intellectual _repartee_, he could go elsewhere.

"Yes," he nodded again, the dark blue of his eyes not leaving hers. "I have decided to take unilateral action, in fact."

"Really?" Grace raised her eyebrows in faintly disguised scepticism. "Not going to have one of your people go off and fix it for you?" her tone was vaguely mocking and suddenly, she didn't give a damn.

"You are one of my people," he said quietly.

"Only in the most technical of senses, and only until I leave this office tonight."

Mycroft rocked back on his heels as he absorbed the information. "You genuinely plan on leaving?"

"As you just now said," Grace managed a smile, though she felt like dying inside. "This situation is neither productive nor desirable. I've delivered my resignation; I'm leaving tonight."

His mouth pursed again as he nodded slowly. "That," he said, "would be acceptable."

Grace managed to hold his gaze even though her throat constricted of its own accord. _He couldn't wait for her to be gone_.

"Then you may consider the matter closed," she muttered. "I'll be out of your hair in the very near future," she said, silently vowing to be gone from this place, gone from his sight within the next thirty minutes.

"You misunderstand," the faintest flicker of a smile curved the corner of his mouth. "You may leave this position, but you cannot leave me."

Grace felt her brain swirl. His words made no sense.

"I have no idea what you mean, but it makes no difference," Grace paused, pressing a hand to her eyes. "Now, if that's all?"

"I'm afraid it's very far from all," Mycroft's smile grew calculating as he stepped forward again, more of a step than a sway.

She realised he was suddenly a lot closer than he had been. Grace took a step back to maintain her distance.

Mycroft stepped forward again. And again.

Grace felt the rear wall of her office against her back; there was nowhere else she could go.

"You aren't going to intimidate me, you know," she lifted her eyes to his in an obstinate determination not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her discomforted.

"I have no desire to intimidate you," he blinked like a snake. "Quite the opposite."

He looked down into her tensed face and seemed to reach a decision.

Leaning forward and tilting his head, he pressed his mouth to hers; dry and soft and without demand.

Sucking in a charged breath, Grace laid her palms against his chest and held him off as he assessed her again.

"That isn't going to change anything," she swallowed hard.

The look on his face was clinical. "No," he smiled softly. "It isn't, is it?" and leaned down again, kissing her harder, one hand sliding up to hold her face gentle and tender as his mouth prised her lips apart and sought the warmth inside, the faintest of groans rumbled in his chest.

Putting some real effort into pushing him away, Grace felt him lean back in, the entire bulk of his weight against her shaking arms. She doubted she could hold him like this for long.

"You can't do this to me again," she breathed, half angry, partly with herself. "You broke my heart."

"I am a beast below contempt," he whispered, leaning harder against her already bowing arms. "I don't deserve the smallest part of your affection, although I feel compelled to observe that you were the one who ran away from _me_ this time."

"No, you don't," Grace felt him closing in on her, his bodyweight too much to hold. "You don't deserve me at all and I didn't run away," she paused, considering. Well, actually, she _had_, but that was neither here nor there.

"Then tell me to go away," he whispered again as he found her mouth once more, his hand sliding behind her head, lifting her away from the wall. "Tell me to go now, and I will, I promise."

"I should," Grace shivered as his arms closed around her, the heat and scent of him filling her head with sensation and longing. Her stomach cramped with the intensity of it.

"You should," he agreed, bringing her tighter to his chest in order to kiss her more thoroughly. Without conscious thought, she tipped her face up to his, sliding her arms around his neck.

"Christ, Grace," he groaned again, the depth of it shaking his entire body. "Tell me to stay or tell me to go," he grated. "I can't stay on the edge anymore."

"Do you love me?" her words were sighed little motes of sound, barely there, but enough.

"To my last breath," Mycroft gave up on holding himself in check, his arms becoming bands of steel as he clasped her to him, taking her mouth in a kiss that stole the air from her lungs.

###

"Sherlock, you really are the most appalling child," his mother hissed down the phone, although there was no need. She was alone in her kitchen staring out of the big garden window, watching her eldest son talk quietly with his lovely blonde companion down by the garden gate.

"Grace Chandler is utterly charming and gorgeous to boot," she added. "Why you never bothered to inform me of either of these details makes me wonder about your vaunted observational ability," she muttered, staring avidly as Mycroft reached for his guest's hand, raising her fingers to his lips.

"_Oh, God_," Violet Holmes was suddenly stricken into silence. It looked very much as if her eldest was making a very serious request.

There was a dry muttering on the phone.

"Now _stop_ that," the Holmes matriarch commanded. "If your brother has finally found someone he truly wants …"

She watched as Mycroft took the woman in his arms.

"Someone he _truly_ wants …" Violet had never found cause before now to be tearful over the more rational and intellectual of her two boys, but at this moment, her eyes felt suspiciously damp.

Observing Mycroft embrace Grace in a most intimate and affectionate manner, Violet turned away. Some moments were best unseen.

She wondered what one wore to a late Summer wedding.

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**THE END**

Thank you to everyone who has read, enjoyed and commented on this story and the series as a whole. It has been fun to write.

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